Put Our Pistols Down
by scarlettshazam
Summary: Stan and Kyle haven't been friends since they were thirteen. Now, Kyle's back in South Park for the first time in four years, and everything seems to be changing. Will they change too? Style.
1. Insect Living in Your Memory

**Chapter Track: Blue Jeans – Ladytron**

"_Just so you know, bro, I invited Stan," _Kenny's voice rings out of Kyle's cell, which is across the room, on speakerphone.

Kyle, though he would never confess to Kenny (the bastard would probably figure it out anyway), still feels a jolt of disappointment at the mention of Stan's name. He sighs, hoping that the little breath is quiet enough that Kenny won't hear it on the other line, and folds his favorite Flogging Molly shirt neatly, tucking it into the corner of his suitcase, on top of his perfectly rolled-up scarf assortment.

"_Your silence is encouraging,"_ Kenny says wryly. Kyle can almost hear the smirk on Kenny's face. He's never quite given up over the years upon insisting that Kyle and Stan are still best friends. And now that…well, now that another era of Kyle's life as come to a close, he's beginning to get irritated. Not that Kenny isn't naturally just annoying sometimes, because he is – and often. But the fact of the matter is that Kyle hasn't spoken to Stan since they were about fourteen. What is that? Like, over eight years ago? Stan hasn't been a part of Kyle's life for a long fucking time.

Kyle replies hastily, "What? I'm just packing, dude. Whatever, Stan and I will be fine. We're fucking adults, for Christ's sake."

Kyle would be lying if he said that he didn't think of Stan from time to time. It was a pain in the ass, how it happened, really. He'd just being doing something or hanging out with some friends, and he's see something, or somebody would make a joke, and Kyle's first thought would be _Stan would like that._ At least, that Stan would have liked something before he changed.

It's for this reason exactly that Kyle tries not to think about Stan. And, for the most part, that had been working out just fine. If only Kenny would shut the fuck up for ten fucking seconds about Stan doing this, or Stan doing that. But Kenny doesn't. Sometimes he's like a broken fucking record, the way he goes on about Stan Marsh.

"_You're a bad liar,"_ accuses Kenny.

"Yeah, fuck you, Kenny. It'll probably be weird, but I can handle it," says Kyle. He looks over his suitcase with brows furrowed. Despite being excellent at folding, he isn't good at packing in general. He always forgets _something_, usually something obvious, like toothpaste, or he'll be short a couple pairs of underwear. He knows as soon as he gets to South Park, or maybe even as soon as he's far enough away from his apartment that it's damned inconvenient to go back, he'll remember what he's forgetting right this instant.

"_Kyle," _Kenny says.

Kyle's head snaps up, looking accusatorily at the cellphone across the room. He responds, keeping his voice deliberately calm, "I'm not a stupid kid anymore, dude."

"_No, you're a stupid adult," _Kenny says back.

Before Kyle can stop himself, he makes an indignant noise of frustration. Kenny laughs loudly, the noise echoing across Kyle's bedroom.

"Fuck you. I'm hanging up," Kyle bites out.

"_Alright bro," _Kenny replies, unfazed as usual by Kyle's temper, _"See you tomorrow."_

Kyle disconnects the call on the touchscreen of his iPhone. He hooks it up the wall charger, before going over his mental checklist. Maybe he should have typed up a real checklist and printed it out. It's too late now, of course – he won't bother wasting his time at eleven o'clock at night, not when he has a nine AM flight out of New Hampshire. Nevertheless, he stores the typed-up checklist in the back of his mind for the next time he takes a trip.

The prospect of this trip shouldn't make him so flustered. He's just going back to his hometown. That's all this is. But still, he hasn't been back in Colorado since he was eighteen. Last month, he turned twenty-two. He's kept up with Kenny pretty often, sort of Skyping when they get the chance, sometimes passing amusing memes to each other over Facebook. Very occasionally he'll have a conversation with Wendy or Bebe, and this one time a couple years ago, Token called him for some reason. But other than that, Kyle's just had a few required conversations with his family (or desperate, ranting phone calls from Ike in which he prattles on about something their mother said or did – _"She means well, I fucking know that, but I am so fucking pissed Kyle, you don't even know!" _).

He didn't come home for Thanksgiving. He never came home for Hanukkah. Not for Passover. Not for Rosh Hashanah. Not for Yom Kippur. Not for _anything._

Kyle just didn't want to _be there. _Maybe it's selfish to feel that way, but he's enjoying his life outside of South Park. The last four years have been some of the best of his life. Sure, there's been stress, but that's what you get when you study at Dartmouth. Everything else has been fantastic. He's had a couple boyfriends, he's worked hard, he's partied a little. He has his own apartment. It may be a tiny piece of shit apartment, but he's put a lot of effort into making it home. And that's what this is, now. This is home. Yeah, okay, the heat sometimes turns itself off, and alright, his electric was shut off last month for two days when he couldn't pay on time with his shitty waiter's wages, but it has its charm. He likes it here.

Unfortunately, he'd promised Kenny that he would come home.

At their high school graduation, they'd shaken on it. Kyle promised he would come back to South Park after he graduated from university (even though he's just coming back for more after the summer comes to a close).

Kenny's a dick sometimes, but Kyle loves him. They're best friends.

Something that he and Stan have not been for a long time, and will never be again.

Kenny's friends with Stan, too. He always was. He ignored their falling out in the ninth grade and decided to play peacekeeper. Kyle once asked (a little bitterly, if he had to admit it) why Kenny still hunf around with Stan, and Kenny answered, "Well, somebody's gotta keep an eye on him, and you're sure as fuck not going to do it."

That's always how it was, and how it progressed. Kenny stayed in South Park and apprenticed to become a mechanic at the one garage in the entire town, and Stan stayed, too. Kyle doesn't know what Stan does, now. He hasn't ever bothered asking, even if he is a little curious. The only option that Kyle can eliminate is Stan going to college – there is no college, community or otherwise, any place near South Park. And if the way that Kenny talks about Stan is any indication, Stan has not budged from the tiny mountain town.

Fucking Kenny. Stan Marsh is the last person that Kyle wants to worry about the night before he leaves. Kyle folds another t-shirt and tucks it into his suitcase, before deciding that he's as packed and ready as he'll ever be. Against his wishes, he knows that there isn't really anything that can "prepare" a person for South Park, anyway. He'll just have to roll with it. No more perfectly ordered, scheduled life in New Hampshire. No, Kyle is purposely putting himself in a chaotic situation.

Kyle decides to take a shower before he attempts sleep (which he knows he won't get, because the process of getting onto an airplane is a goddamned nightmare to him). On a typical day, Kyle tends to be all business about bathing. He's never understood the people that can sit under the water for ages, just thinking. He likes to get clean and get out and get on with shit. Tonight is different, though. He finds himself lingering under the showerhead even as the water turns from hot - he likes it scalding - to warm, to lukewarm, to cold. He isn't even thinking, really. He just stares ahead at the yellowed tile of the shower wall.

Eventually, he does get out. He towels himself dry and scrubs at his hair with the product that's supposed to keep it from being frizzy, and changes into his softest pajamas because he feels like he needs the comfort. He tries to read for awhile, but when he picks up the book that he's reading, _The End of Science_, Kyle realizes that all he can do is read the same sentence over and over without processing the words. He sets it aside after scanning the sentence, "Quantum mechanics, in particular, has to be flawed, because it is so glaringly inconsistent with ordinary, macroscopic reality." Normally he lives for this shit, but tonight it just makes him feel incredibly stupid.

In the end, he watches old episodes of Spongebob instead of reading _or_ sleeping. It'll kick his ass in the morning, he's sure, but he finds that he can't work up the capacity to care.

Still, he can't stop himself from being anxious. A horrible feeling settles in the pit of his stomach, one that makes him feel like he abandoned South Park and when he flies into Colorado, he'll discover that it's gone up in flames.

Kyle knows that's ridiculous in the logical part of his brain, but he also knows this:

This is going to be one _hell_ of a summer.

**o.o.o.o**

Flights stress Kyle out. He hates security and getting felt up but old men in uniforms, hates the stress of getting there on time, hates wondering if his luggage will be too heavy and he'll be charged extra. He _hates _it.

What he doesn't hate is airports.

Particularly Denver International. It's spacious and well-decorated. It smells good and there's a giant fountain. Plus, outside, there's the gigantic demon horse statue with glowing eyes that killed its own artist, which he has always considered pretty badass – like it's saying, "Welcome to Colorado, motherfuckers."

"Kyle!"

He hears the shout as soon as the escalators bring him up to the ground level and he and his carry-on suitcase start rolling across the floor. Kenny is waving wildly from the gated area. Even though Kyle's seen his photos on Facebook and occasionally on Skype, he looks different in person. His face has thinned out from the always just-slightly baby-faced look that he had, and he's taller by perhaps an inch or two (though not quite as tall as Kyle is). Nevertheless, he's still wearing a McCormick-style tacky t-shirt that says _I have a little Seaman on my shirt_, with a caricature of a guy in a sailor suit beside the words, and his shorts look like he made them out of a pair of jeans by cutting off the bottoms.

They hug tightly with a synchronized, "Dude!"

"How've you been?" Kyle says, at the same time that Kenny goes, "What's up with Captain Ivy League?"

They start laughing, and hug again. Kyle feels the tension in his gut about returning to South Park ease a little as Kenny claps him on the back and they head off to the baggage claim.

"How's South Park?" Kyle finally asks, as soon as they've both been quiet for awhile. The silences between Kenny and Kyle are always comfortable, though. Never awkward, even if Kenny does make a nasty joke and Kyle doesn't know how to respond.

Kenny inhales loudly and scratches the back of his neck. He says, "Well…"

Kyle lifts a brow, "Well, what? Have you been hiding something, asshole?"

"Not necessarily _hiding_, as I just found out recently myself, but…"

Kyle gives Kenny a look before returning his focus to the rotating suitcases. He always misses his suitcase when it rolls by on this thing, and ends up chasing after it.

"I kind of knocked up Wendy," Kenny says.

At that, Kyle whirls around, mouth agape, and goes, "_WHAT?_"

Kenny gives an uncomfortable little laugh and says, "Uh, yeah." He looks a little more than sheepish about his confession.

"I thought she was in New York? Why the hell would she sleep with you? Holy shit, dude!"

"She was in New York, but she came down for spring break, right? And she and I ran into each other when I was like buying dental floss or something. And like a dumbass, I'm all, 'let's get drinks and catch up,' and so we did. Except, we kind of got trashed, and, uh, got a little carried away. She came back to South Park a couple weeks ago and broke the news to me on Wednesday," Kenny says. A second later, he points to a red bag going around the corner of the claim and says, "Isn't that yours, dude?"

"Damnit," mutters Kyle, and he scrambles after the bag to retrieve it.

Kenny rolls the larger suitcase along for Kyle as they head out into the parking garage. It's fucking sunny as all hell, not a cloud in the sky. And damn, Kyle forgot how dry it could get. As a teenager, he practically had to bathe in lotion, since the climate irritated his eczema. He's still trying to process the fact that there's a Kenny-Wendy thing even going on, let alone the fact that he got her pregnant. Sure, Kenny was always fairly _promiscuous_, but he was never stupid about it. He happily employed the use of condoms, and Kyle would have thought that Wendy would be on some kind of birth control.

Kyle asks, "So, what are you gonna do?"

"Huh?" Kenny says, snapping out of his thoughts, "Oh, you mean about the kid. Well, I can't do anything. I may have donated my DNA, but I ain't the one delivering that shit."

"Okay, what is Wendy going to do, then?" Kyle clarifies.

"She wants to keep it," Kenny says, "I offered my help, you know? And she just was all, 'I can take care of myself, I just thought you should know.'" Kenny's face goes funny, an expression that's a mixture of emotions that Kyle can't name.

"That's good, though, right?" questions Kyle. It seems like Kenny might be more touchy about this than he wants to let Kyle know, and Kyle thinks it's rude to pry. Nevertheless, he wants to get more out of his friend. Because really? Wendy goddamn Testaburger? Kyle hasn't even been in Colorado for an hour and his mind has already been blown.

"I guess," Kenny says, "It's freaking me out, though, dude. Like, fuck. Anyway, now that you're up to speed on the fuckery that is _my_ life, what's up, man? Any gentlemen caught your eye?"

"Nah, not really," Kyle says. Kenny loads Kyle's bigger suitcase into the flatbed of his truck, then the smaller carry-on. The truck is a lot nicer than Kyle recalls it being. Kenny found the half-destroyed and all the way rusted 1949 Chevy 3100 in a dump when they were maybe fifteen years old. The tires were all blown out and everything, but Kenny had it towed back to his house and, despite having almost no money, he ordered expensive-ass parts and fixed it up. The last time Kyle saw the truck, it was still rusted and couldn't run for shit. Now it's got a shiny coat of metallic red paint and not a spot of dirt on it.

"You wanna know something fucking _weird as shit_?" Kenny asks, as they slide into the seats. He starts the ignition and reverses out of the space.

"Because your bastard child with Wendy fucking Testaburger _isn't_ weird as shit?" Kyle's brows lift high into his red hair.

"Fuck you," Kenny says, "But seriously, this is crazy shit I'm about to tell you here, if you weren't being such a dickwad."

"I'm not a dickwad, but go on," Kyle replies.

"Cartman came out of the closet," Kenny says. He gives Kyle a shit-eating grin.

"Cartman did _what_?" Kyle knows that Kenny was waiting to get this reaction out of him. Suddenly, he does feel oddly left out of the South Park loop. Why did Kenny keep all of this stuff from him during their phone calls or Facebook messaging? Maybe he wanted to wait until they were together, but still. It isn't like Kyle directly thought, word for word, _Oh, my town can't function without me,_ but in a way, he did think it. Like, things _shouldn't_ be carrying on without him.

He suddenly feels narcissistic as all hell.

"It gets better," Kenny says eagerly, as they pull onto the E-470. Now comes the three hour drive into the Rockies… "He's with Butters!"

"He's with who now? What the fuck?" Kyle just stares. There isn't anything else to _but_ stare, really. True, Kyle had always pegged Cartman as an extremely severe closet case (he'd like to believe that his gaydar is of superior quality), but Cartman and motherfucking _Butters_? Maybe it shouldn't come as such a surprise. Butters had always seemed to fall in with Cartman's schemes, up until their junior year of high school, when Butters refused to even hear Cartman's name be mentioned.

Wait.

"How long has this been going on?" Kyle asks.

"A _looong _ass time, my friend," Kenny admits, "I sort of knew about it. You remember my experimental thing when we were seniors, yeah? Well, Butters and I sort of…fooled around. Didn't last, 'cause Butters broke down when we like, half naked, and spilled everything about his little liaison with Cartman. It was kind of gross, when I think about it. And definitely fucking awkward. But yeah, he told me in confidence and shit. It's just that they got caught in the act by Bebe a couple months ago, and Cartman just told everybody she was lying. But _then_, Butters throws a fit when I'm fixing their car. He was all, 'I'm not going to be your dirty little secret anymore, Eric,' and then he stormed off. Moved in with Bebe. They made up a few weeks ago, when Cartman decided he'd just say it."

Kyle whistles lowly.

"Right?" says Kenny, "Anyway, I think that's it. Everything else is exactly the same."

Kyle wants to ask about Stan, and he thinks that Kenny might be waiting for him to do exactly that. He won't humor him. Instead, Kyle turns onto his side and stares out of the truck's window. He's exhausted, actually, from a sleepless night worrying about all the bullshit that comes with flying. The fact that he can't sleep for shit on airplanes doesn't help, either. Fortunately, he's talented at falling asleep in cars. The guys always used to make fun of him for it, but Kyle could never help but fall asleep in cars. It's something about the rocking motion of the vehicle, and the white noise from driving against the wind, that just lulls him to sleep, even if the drive is only fifteen minutes long.

Kyle wakes up a couple hours later to the sound of a slamming door. He rubs his eyes. He's in front of a house – Kenny's house, he guesses? Kenny mentioned something about renting a place. Kyle remembers this house. It was always empty when they were kids. They knew the family that owned it didn't manage to sell and rented it out when they could.

Kenny's futzing with the keys at the front door. He has Kyle's bags with him.

After four years, he really is back in South Park.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny is such an asshole. That's all that Kyle can think. Kyle has only been in South Park for a day, and he pulls this kind of shit. Yes, Kyle knew about the party, sure, but he didn't know that Kenny was throwing the party _for him. _Fucking hell. No wonder Kenny was so eager to get Kyle out of the house that afternoon. He was all, _Kyle, could you run and grab some Cheesy Poofs? I would, but I'm kind of busy._

And Kyle returned to this. He opened the front door to Kenny's place with two jumbo bags of Cheesy Poofs, and there were like, a hundred fucking people in Kenny's living room. It's like a goddamned high school reunion. Everybody's there except for Red, who's apparently backpacking across Europe at the moment.

Some people exactly the same as he recalls – Craig is still tall and thin and kind of angry-looking, Clyde is still a little chubby but amiable and fun to talk to. Others look completely different – Cartman isn't as fat as he is _solid_, and apparently he frequents the gym, and even though Kyle had had a forewarning, the very slight swell of Wendy's stomach still freaks him out. Especially when he know the father of that kid is Kenny fucking McCormick. Like, what the hell. He's reminded of it again when he offers to get her a drink, and Wendy lifts one perfectly plucked brow, pats her belly, and says, "Does it look like I should be drinking alcohol?"

"Probably not," Kyle chuckles, "So, uh, do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" Forced conversation. His favorite. And it's all this party is. He reminds himself that he's going to murder Kenny in his sleep once all of these people are gone.

"Not for a couple months," Wendy shrugs.

"So, Kenny, huh?"

Wendy gives this the evil eye and says, "Don't be an asshole, Kyle," before she slinks off to where Token and Bebe are laughing over some evidently hilarious joke that Bebe told.

Shit, dude. Kyle does not want to get involved in baby drama. But, he has a feeling that since he's living with Kenny for the summer, he's going to be stuck with the drama no matter what he does.

Kyle opens a bottle of beer (while buying Cheesy Poofs for Kenny Lying-Bastard McCormick, he also bought himself classier beer than Kenny's fare. Kyle has become an unapologetic beer snob), and wanders. He's wanted to say hi to Butters, but waits until Cartman goes off to do something else. He's not sure how being reunited with Cartman will go, though he's even more dubious about Stan.

"Kenny's really outdone himself, don'tcha think?" Butters comes to stand next to Kyle, who's still trying to take in the explosion of streamers and the giant banner with the words, "Welcome home, Kyle!" painted across it in green. He guesses that maybe Kenny really did miss him. Sure, Kenny has had Stan and all, but Kyle has a feeling there's some tension there with the whole Wendy being pregnant with Kenny's bastard child thing.

Or maybe he's just slightly envious of the friendship between Stan and Kenny. He can't tell. Kyle's always had a leaning toward jealously, despite trying to keep it down. He decided some time ago that maybe it would be better just to admit to this fault than try to pretend it doesn't exist.

Butters looks the same as ever. He's still round-eyed and round-faced and still has his same military-style haircut, but he seems more cheerful. Kyle hates to attribute Butters' happiness with Eric Cartman, but he thinks that that's probably it.

Kyle's just overwhelmed by the attention. Kenny said that he'd be throwing a party (or as Kenny put it a "hootenanny" – Kyle thinks that Kenny was joking when he said that, but isn't entirely sure), but he never specified that the party was in Kyle's honor. He doesn't think that Kenny told that to Stan, either, because Stan is hovering back in an empty corner, alone, with a beer in his hand.

Stan catches Kyle staring. Shit. Kyle lifts a hand a waves weakly.

Apparently, Stan takes this as a cue to walk over and greet him.

Aw, shit. Shit shit shit. Stan looks good, really good. He seems a little tired, or maybe he's just annoyed that Kenny's a douche and tricked them both into this, but his longish hair is cut neatly (courtesy of Bebe), he's actually kind of tan, and he looks like he keeps in shape. Kyle feels a traitorous twist of attraction inside him. It's some sick combination of being drawn to his ex-super-best-friend physically, and remembering all the bullshit that he left behind when he left South Park. It's an uncomfortable feeling, and Stan must be feeling something like it too. Kyle thinks their expressions might be mirroring each other.

"Uh, hey," Stan says, lifting the can of beer in acknowledgement.

"Um, hi," Kyle says back.

"I – I'd best leave you two alone, I think," says Butters, blushing, before running back to find a new person to talk to.

"How are you?" asks Stan. He asks it in the way you ask somebody you knew "from that one class" when you run into them at the grocery store. Awkwardly, and like you don't really care, because you'd rather just get back to your shopping so you can eat your TV dinner in front of Law & Order reruns.

"Good," Kyle answers in the same manner, "You?"

"Good," states Stan.

Could this be any more painful? Kyle would rather be anywhere but here. Kenny was wrong, all wrong about this whole thing. He and Stan aren't friends anymore. They haven't been and they won't be. They probably _can't_ be, quite frankly. They have history. History does shit to people, even if that history dates back years and years.

"So…uh, Kenny says you work at the shelter?" Kyle says, in an attempt at conversation. He'd rather be escaping, but from behind Stan's head, he sees Kenny giving him a thumbs up across the room. Kyle flips him off. When Stan makes a face, Kyle explains hastily, "Kenny."

Stan forces out a chuckle, "Ah. Yeah. But yeah, I do work at the shelter. It's kind of sketchy, since I don't have a license, but I kind of picked it up." It doesn't surprise Kyle at all that Stan ended up working with animals. He's always loved them as a kid, more than anybody usually does. And, sometime back when they were in high school, Kyle heard that Stan had decided to become a vegetarian, though he doesn't know the truth of that. He never asked Stan himself, it was all just hearsay.

Kyle did a lot of that in high school - listening to hearsay about Stan. He missed him then. He misses him now. God, this is so fucked up. You shouldn't care so much about a best friend you stopped speaking to after middle school. But Kyle does, and he hates himself for it. He hates Stan for making him miss their friendship like he does. He hopes those emotions don't read on his face, because he's trying hard. He's trying so damned hard to be an adult and suck it up and pretend that it didn't hurt like fuck when their super-best-friendship ended.

There's another lengthy pause. The tension between them is almost electric. It always was. In high school, Stan and Kyle couldn't bear to be in the same room together.

Stan coughs into his hands. He says, "Look, I've gotta bounce, but do you wanna get coffee or something? Catch up or, I dunno. Would that be cool?"

The truth is definitely _No, Stan, that would be super fucking awkward and not 'cool' at all, _but Kyle finds his mouth moving before his brain, and he responds, "Yeah, totally cool. How's tomorrow?"

"Uh, got work, but Friday maybe? Like, in the evening? Tweak Bros?"

"Yeah. Sure. Friday evening," Kyle says.

"Awesome, dude," Stan offers a crooked grin. He tosses his empty beer can into the trashcan, and Kyle can't help but wonder how many of those he drank before Stan is walking toward the door. Stan turns, though, mid-walk, and says, voice a little more soft and certainly more sincere than it had been moments before, "Dude? It's good to have you back."

**o.o.o.o**

**If you haven't ever had the privilege of seeing the Denver International Airport demon horse statue (actually it's supposed to be a bronco but who cares, its eyes glow red), you should google that shit. And it did actually kill its own artist! **

**Comments/questions/suggestions? They'll be the most help now, when the story is just at its beginning stages and you have the most chance of influencing me. ;D**


	2. Leave It Where It Can't Remind Us

**Chapter Track: Turn Into – Yeah Yeah Yeahs **

Stan didn't mean to make himself anxious at the prospect of meeting Kyle at Tweak Bros. He didn't actually mean to ask Kyle to coffee. It was like the suggestion came out of his mouth of its own accord.

And now, of all things, he was going to be fucking late. He woke up at half past noon, hungover, with his dogs scratching outside of his door and whining. They did that when they worried, or so he liked to believe. He was supposed to fucking meet Kyle at Tweak Bros at one. Kyle fucking I'm-a-success Broflovski. Why did he let himself get into this? Stan steels himself for a horrible day, a sinking feeling that he would be sure to humiliate himself wafting around in his gut. Or maybe that's the hangover.

He stumbles out of bed – still in last night's clothes, which reek of cigarette smoke and the beer he'd spilled down his front. He'd take care of himself later – first he should feed his dogs. He never felt more like an asshole than when he woke up to his dogs crying because they were hungry. They're his best friends, his dogs. Dogs are a lot better at keeping him company than people, which is why he'd begun to dread getting coffee with Kyle.

Kyle is perfect. He always had been, and it isn't fucking fair. Okay, sure, he has more of a temper than Stan does, but he isn't nearly as emotional over all. He's tall. Funny. Well-dressed. Smart as fuck. The bastard is going to Dartmouth, for God's sake.

What does Stan do? Stan works as the veterinarian for South Park's animal shelter even though he isn't licensed. He smells like beer and dog all the time, because those two things are essentially his entire life. He rarely goes a night without drinking himself to sleep, and he usually wakes up with one or two of his dogs sleeping on top of him. All three dogs are under the impression that they are lapdogs, and only one of them is not mistaken. His pug, Thor, while fat, is still more comfortable to have on his stomach or his legs or wherever the dog deems suitable. Far more comfortable than his mastiff or dalmatian. Not that he'd ever bother to scold either Daisy or Lucy for their antics. His dogs have him kind of whipped.

After Stan fills three bowls with the appropriate kibble (regular for Daisy and Lucy, diet for Thor), he showers quickly, not bothering to shave, since it would only waste time. He's going to look like a slob in comparison to Kyle anyhow, so why bother trying? He just gives himself a quick shampoo to get the bar scent out of his hair and runs a comb through the tangled mess while searching for a clean set of clothing – an actual task in his hellishly messy townhouse.

After giving it the smell test, Stan yanks a t-shirt from the overflowing laundry basket in the corner of his bedroom over his head, fastens a belt around his cargo shorts, and shoves flip flops onto his feet. He says goodbye to his dogs, but he's fairly certain that they're too busy eating to care that he's leaving.

Stan arrives at Tweak Bros nearly fifteen minutes late. It's not as bad as it could have been, he decides.

Until he sees Kyle.

Perfect fucking Kyle.

Damn it. He'd told himself _and_ Kenny, when Kenny informed Stan that Kyle would be coming home to South Park for the first time in four years, that he would act the adult he supposedly is and treat Kyle normally. They didn't need to fight when they talked anymore. He wouldn't embarrass himself by drunk-dialing Kyle at two in the morning like he used to in high school.

See – Stan remains bitter about a couple things. Kyle likes to say that they haven't spoken since they were about thirteen or fourteen, but that isn't completely true. Back in high school, there were multiple occasions in which they interacted in some form or another. Stan fuzzily recalls multiple times that he called Kyle to come pick him up after a party, since, at the time, Kyle was the only person he was even sort of close to that owned a functioning vehicle. And then there was _that one time_…

…But he and Kyle hadn't spoken about _that one time_, not even right after it happened.

Stan's resolve to approach this situation like an adult sort of reinforces itself when he sees Kyle in one of the back booths in Tweak Bros, sipping out of a mug and reading his book like he expected that Stan wouldn't show up. He looks so put-together. His outfit, though not much different than Stan's (just a t-shirt and corduroy pants), seems so much neater. When Stan approaches, he can smell Kyle, too. He smells nice, like some sort of subtle cologne. He smells a bit like shaving cream, too. Unlike Stan, it seems that Kyle actually groomed himself this morning. His red hair has been recently cut. He's wearing glasses. Stan assumes that they must be reading glasses, since he didn't wear them to Kenny's party.

And as his decision to be an adult firms, he also wishes he could shout at Kyle. There are so many things that Stan has wanted to say over the years, and now that he finally has the chance again, he doesn't want to embarrass either of them.

He slides into the booth, across the table from Kyle, and folds his hands in his lap awkwardly. He coughs to get Kyle's attention and says, "Sorry I'm late. I, uh, forgot to set my alarm." That wasn't _too_ far from the truth, after all. He had forgotten to set his alarm, he had just forgotten because he was drunk as fuck.

Kyle doesn't answer for a moment. He finishes reading his sentence and marks his book before setting it down on the table. Looks like some smart kid thing. Stan doesn't mind reading. At least he doesn't think that he does. He read the Harry Potter books like the rest of the world, but that might have been the last time that he did pick up a book.

Kyle offers a tight smile, before tucking the thick volume away in a canvas bag that sits beside him on the booth's seat and says, "Don't worry about it." He picks up his mug and takes a long drink.

When Kyle sets it back down, Stan can't help but peer over the rim of the cup. It isn't coffee, like he'd thought. He asks, "What is that?"

"Earl grey," answers Kyle.

"Tea?" Stan questions. He's not sure that he expected that.

"Yeah, I've been trying to cut down on the coffee since last year. Switching to tea or something," Kyle shrugs. Fancy fucking Kyle. He would drink his fancy-ass _earl grey_, with his expensive looking haircut and his expensive looking pants and – what the hell is he wearing on his feet? Are those _loafers_?

This is stupid. They used to be best friends. Now they're sitting in Tweak Bros so awkwardly it's like they were forced here by their mothers or something. They're having a discussion about _tea_ for fuck's sake. Who fucking cares?

Stan has been dying to talk about what happened to them all these years. It seems like neither of them is going to bring up their friendship for fear of making things too awkward, or maybe it's that they're both just huge pussies about the whole thing.

Stan wants to be the one to say something. But he won't. He's too scared to, he knows that. So instead, he asks, "So, how was Dartmouth?"

"It was okay," Kyle says shortly, "A lot of work."

"Did you have any friends?" asks Stan, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. As he asks, Tweek approaches their table. He looks like he's already had a hard day at work. His hair is sticking out everywhere and his apron is splashed with coffee and flavor syrups. He sets a mug in front of Stan. It's Stan's usual, just a straight cup of coffee. He blinks up at Tweek and says, "I didn't pay for this, dude."

Tweek points accusingly at Kyle and says, "He did, man!"

Stan glances back to Kyle, and Kyle explains, "I just asked what you usually get and told Tweek to bring it over whenever you showed up." He shrugs his shoulders, and Stan feels like he was maybe too accusatory.

"Thanks, man," Stan mumbles, and whether he's thanking Tweek or Kyle, he isn't certain, and neither are they, because Tweek walks back to the counter and Kyle sips his tea in silence.

Kyle answers his question with a bit of tentativeness in his voice, "I had some friends, yeah, but I mostly just missed…all the guys here." Stan thinks that Kyle might have been about to say 'you guys,' but didn't want to include Stan in his statement. It hurts to think about. Hoping that his pain doesn't register on his face, Stan takes a sip of his coffee.

"Dating?" Stan asks, because it feels like an obligatory question, and he's running out of conversation material fucking _fast_.

"Sort of," Kyle says, "but all the guys I met turned out to be dicks, so I've just given up for the time being."

Wait. Guys? Stan looks sharply at Kyle and says, "Guys?"

Kyle stares back with a _Really? _expression on his face and responds, "Uh, yeah, dude. I came out when we were like, fourteen. You don't remember?"

"Hold on," Stan says, "Does that mean that _that one time_ wasn't you like, experimenting or something?"

Kyle flushes a deep shade of red, a curse of his hair and light skin tone. He thumbs the rim of his mug and says, "Sorry if that like, makes you uncomfortable? We were fourteen, so that doesn't really matter, anyway."

But it does matter to Stan. _That one time_ mattered a lot at the time, and despite thinking that he's been over it, it turns out that he's hurt when he hears Kyle say that it didn't matter.

"It doesn't?" Stan finds himself blurting before he can help it. He feels the blood rush to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. _Goddamnit. _He inhales deeply and says, "Sorry. That just came out. I mean, it's just that, er," How to put this without making either of them die of embarrassment? Stan wonders, until he realizes that they're already both red as fire hydrants and he may as well further the humiliation, "at the time, it like, meant something? To me, I mean. I guess I never officially had a coming-out sort of thing. My mom and my sister always just knew, you know. And my dad…is my dad."

Stan had a semi-official coming out when he was around sixteen. His dad took the whole thing preciously to heart, becoming even more active in embarrassing Stan. It seems like all of Randy Marsh's boasting about his son begin with, "Well, my _gay_ son..." Like it made a huge difference to Stan's character as a person that he preferred dick. He loves his dad, but Jesus Christ, sometimes he wants to ring his neck.

"Oh," Kyle says. Stan thinks Kyle might be trying to think of something to say, and what ends up coming out of the mouth of his ex-super-best-friend is, "Is that why we stopped being friends?"

"Fuck if I know," Stan says, "I mean, high school sucked for me. Sucked really, really hard. I guess when you didn't talk to me after that one time, I thought you hated me. I thought you would tell everybody and I was gonna get my ass beat or something. Like everybody would know about me and I would be like, South Park's resident fag…or something." Stan knows that's a lot of 'or something's for one sentence, but he didn't intend to spill out all his feelings during this little coffee thing. He thought all he'd have to is pretend that his life here is great and he's not lonely all the time.

"Um," Kyle says, "I kind of thought the same thing. But we stopped talking before that, I thought."

"This is really uncomfortable," Stan says.

"Yeah, it is," agrees Kyle, "But I always wanted to know. And now it's on the table."

"This is probably going to sound stupid," Stan prefaces. He decides that he'd rather not look Kyle in the eye, and so instead, he holds his forehead in his hands and speaks to the table, "I hated everything. I mean, my whole life seemed to be falling apart. And you told me that you didn't want to be around my negativity. So I just distanced myself, 'cause I was bringing you down and shit like that."

"I said that?"

Of course he wouldn't even remember. Stan feels like he's just taken a sabre to the heart at this revelation. The words that absolutely _annihilated _him when he was thirteen and in desperate need of a friend are words that Kyle can't even remember saying. He's relieved, now, that he decided to slip his flask in his pocket before he left his townhouse. He thought he might need it after getting coffee, though, not _during._ Stan twists the lid of his metal flask open and dumps whiskey down his throat, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. He replaces it in the pocket of his cargo shorts before finding the courage to look Kyle in the eye again.

"You're still drinking," Kyle says flatly.

"Like you've never had a drink," Stan rolls his eyes, irritated now. He doesn't know why he's still here. It was a really bad idea in the first place. They must both be the stupidest people on the planet.

So, he takes out his wallet, leaves a couple bills on the table for Tweek, and stands up.

"Dude, wait up," Kyle grabs his bag and chases after him.

Once outside, Stan makes a beeline for his crappy-ass Ford. He drove, even though Tweak Bros is only about a ten minute walk away from his townhouse. He just didn't want to be later than he already would be. He wanted to impress Kyle. Why did he even care? Kyle clearly didn't and still does not give a damn about him. Nobody gives a damn about him, really. Not even Kenny – though Kenny has stuck with Stan through the years, he knows it's because Kenny has really just been playing babysitter and making sure that Stan doesn't do anything particularly stupid.

"Just leave, Kyle," Stan says. He fumbles with his keys and lets out a frustrated groan when they fall onto the asphalt.

"I don't get it. What did I do? We were just sitting there, and then you were all pissed at me. This is exactly what happened when we were little," Kyle exasperatedly says.

"I _needed you_!" Stan exclaims. He snatches his keys off the ground and opens the driver's side, but not before shouting, "I needed you more than ever, and you just fucking told me that you couldn't be around my negativity! What the fuck kind of friend does that? Fuck you, dude. This is never going to work, because you'll never understand. You will never fucking get it. Oh, and _that one time_? That one that doesn't fucking matter to you? I thought I was in love with you for like, a year. So fuck your shit, you raging asshole. We're never going to be friends."

Stan climbs into the Ford and starts it up, ready to make a clean getaway, until Kyle pries the passenger's door open, gets into the car, and slams the door. He says, "Why didn't you tell me?" And though Kyle's voice is shaky, he's surprisingly calm, compared to how incredibly pissed off Stan is.

"I tried!" snaps Stan, accelerating hard, and zipping out of the Tweak Bros parking lot. He'll just drive Kyle back to Kenny's place. Then this'll be over. He'll stop by the liquor store and buy himself something nice, and go home. He'll cuddle with his dogs and get shitfaced.

"When? When did you 'try,' Stan?" Kyle demands. He says this like he doesn't believe him.

The tires squeal as Stan takes a sharp turn way too fast. Kyle shouts at him to slow down, but Stan ignores him. He just wants this stupid day to be over already. He wants to never see Kyle again. He wishes that Kyle had stayed in New Hampshire. It would have been better that way. Then Stan could continue to live in his fantasies, where Kyle was abjectly apologetic, where Kyle cared the way that Stan cared.

Stan hates the way his brain works. He feels everything so keenly. Everything hurts, especially now. His head and his heart and his stomach. He knew that this was how this would all go down. There wasn't going to be the tearful reunion that Kenny expected there to be, nor would there be the joyous reconciliation. All Kyle's return has done for Stan is dredge up the stinging memory of being the token loner kid at South Park High, the one with nobody to care about him, nobody to eat lunch with, _nobody. _He had nobody. He knew that then and Stan hates being reminded of it now.

"You remember Valentine's Day, freshman year?" Stan asks, and he thinks he might start to cry, because of how heartbroken that day made him, "How somebody taped a flower to your locker?" It hadn't even been a month since _that one time_, and Stan was still holding out the hope that Kyle might feel the same way that he felt, despite that they hadn't spoken because Kyle was avoiding him like the plague.

Kyle looks like someone has punched him in the stomach. He murmurs, "That was you?"

"'That was you?'" mocks Stan, making a face, mostly so that he doesn't cry like he think he might, "You're a piece of shit, you know that? You _laughed _at it and threw it in the trash."

"I thought somebody was playing a prank, dude," Kyle insists, "If I'd known it was you – look, I'm really, really sorry. I didn't think there was a possibility that anybody could like me that way. I thought Cartman put it there to fuck with me."

"Yeah? What about that time? You just said that it didn't fucking matter. Well, assbag, I thought that it did. I like, tried to hug you after, and you just shoved me away," Stan hears his voice crack, and he knows he has to get to Kenny's house _now._ He cannot take another second of this. He has to get Kyle out of his car so that he can be alone.

The only time that he's ever safe is when he's alone. That's how it's always been. People just fuck with you. They don't care, like Kyle doesn't care. That's why he never went to college – hell, he never even _applied_ to college. He was afraid that he'd have to make friends. He'd at least had to have had a roommate in the dorms, and he didn't even want that. He just wanted to be by himself, no matter what that took. It was easier, and continues to be easier, to be alone in South Park. Everybody here knows to leave Stan be. As soon as he scored the job at the shelter, he was able to move out. Real estate out in the middle of nowhere is cheap. On his salary now, he probably wouldn't be able to afford an apartment in Denver even a quarter of the size of his little townhouse.

The Ford screeches to a stop in front of Kenny's place, and Stan says lowly, "Get out."

"I'm really sorry, Stan," Kyle says. Now the dickwad is losing his cool. His voice is raising and getting higher, "I didn't know, dude. Come on. Don't leave it like this."

"Get _out_," Stan repeats, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles have turned white.

Instead of obeying, Kyle puts a hand on Stan's should and pulls him forward.

Their lips connect. For a moment, Stan is almost fooled. Kyle's lips are warm and he tastes like earl grey tea. Stan's trembling fingers slip off of the steering wheel and his hands find their way into Kyle's curls. He wants to melt into the kiss and pretend that somebody gives a damn about him. But nobody gives a damn about Stan Marsh, and he knows that better than anybody.

He shoves Kyle away and says, "Fuck no. For the last fucking time, get out of here. Nobody gives a shit about me, so don't strut the fuck around pretending like you do, you self-righteous prick."

"I _do_ give a shit, Stan," Kyle says. He looks about as hurt as Stan feels, which is the height of fucking ridiculousness. Kyle doesn't know the meaning of hurt. He never has. And if it happens that Kyle is hurt by this, then good. He'll be getting a taste of his own medicine. You don't get to fuck with somebody's feelings without eventually feeling the karma. And Stan will be happy to deliver that karma with a grin on his face.

"Don't lie to yourself," Stan spits.

"I'm not – nevermind. Fine. You win," Kyle holds up his hands in defense, before he pulls his canvas bookbag over his shoulder, and leaves the car.

What Stan feels as Kyle disappears inside Kenny's house is a combination of relief and fury. He's glad that this is over. He'll just spend the rest of the summer avoiding Kyle. Kyle will fly back to New Hampshire in mid-August, and Stan's life can resume. It'll go back to the place where the most exciting part of his year will be when one of the ranchers outside of South Park asks him to help deliver a foal. He likes that. The only time he's needed is when he's needed by animals. People are high maintenance, so fuck them. Especially Kyle Broflovski.

You don't just get to _do_ that, Stan thinks viciously, as he drives out of Kenny's neighborhood and to the liquor store. You don't just get to tell somebody that you didn't know, things would have been different if you'd just known, blah blah blah, and then kiss. Kyle kissed him. That asshole. That asshole piece of shit perfect fucking dickwad Ivy League son of a bitch. What did he think? I'll just kiss him and maybe he'll shut the fuck up?

_Okay, you'll get your way, Broflovski. I'll shut up. I won't bother you as long as you're here_.

Stan double-parks his car in front of the liquor store, and gives exactly zero shits. He doesn't care that he's in a total rage, slamming the car door and marching into the shop like he's marching into battle.

"Panties in a twist, Marsh?" Craig asks from the counter.

Stan shoots Craig the best possible death stare that he can scrape up, and says, "Suck my dick, Craig."

Craig flips him off and blows a bubble of his chewing gum, before popping it with his teeth and resuming his loud chewing. Stan rolls his eyes and goes prowling through the tiny, shack-sized liquor haven, gathering anything that sounds like it'll do the trick.

He ends up with four bottles, unsure if he already has his liquor cabinet stocked with them or not. He knows he'll drink them eventually, and in truth he'll get them pretty quick. Craig scans each one with a _beep_, and remarks, "No offense, but this probably isn't the best way to deal with your boyfriend being in town."

"He's not my boyfriend," Stan bites out. If he can help it, Kyle will never be anything even remotely resembling Stan's boyfriend. _Nobody_ will ever be his boyfriend. Not one fucking person. He is going to die alone and he is going to be damned proud that he did. Everyone in this world is a piece of shit, and he wants nothing to do with the fuckers.

Stan doesn't like the look that Craig gives him. Craig doesn't care about anybody. In a way, he's sort of appreciated that Craig has been so up front about not giving a damn about Stan, unlike the rest of the town. The rest of them like to pretend that they _do_ care, only to ditch Stan when he thinks he might actually need somebody. That's okay. He has learned, rest assured. But now, now Craig is eyeing Stan like a disapproving parent. It makes Stan feel the need to say, "I'm having a party."

"No you're not," Craig deadpans. He packs the bottles into a paper bag.

"I am so," Stan responds childishly, "It's just that nobody's invited but me. Asshole."

Craig pops his bubblegum again and announces, "Total is seventy-eight eighteen."

Stan hands over his debit card, fuming at Kyle, fuming at Craig, fuming at this stupid mountain town that he thinks he should escape. The only problem is that he's too scared to leave. He hasn't saved up shit. He blows his money every fucking month on purchases like this one. And on treats for his dogs.

Craig doesn't say anything more, and neither does Stan. He leaves the liquor store with his paper bag of alcohol cradled in his arms like a child, and holds them like that when he unlocks the door to his home. His dogs greet him with wagging tails.

After that, he can't be angry. Nothing diffuses his temper faster than his dogs. He's just really, _really_ sad. It's the kind of sad that he's become familiar with, has been familiar with since he was like, ten. An all-consuming, black, kind of sad. The type that he feels like he couldn't claw his way out of if he tried. Where nothing makes him happy anymore. Nothing has a point.

Stan flips on his television and flops onto his couch, pulling his fleece blanket over him. He pours himself a shot of Smirnoff and tips it back before deciding on a channel. He ends up watching a Lifetime movie with Thor curled up on his abdomen. Something about pugs, man. They look at you with their big eyes and Stan knows that Thor can tell that Stan is sad.

So in a combination of his despair, the alcohol, the tear-jerking plot of this terribly acted movie, and Thor's concerned eyes, Stan is finally driven to cry. He doesn't want to cry. So he just pours himself another shot. And another.

He loses count, but the alcohol drives him to a new and fucking inconvenient realization: He still loves Kyle Broflovski, exactly like he loved him when they were ten, after _that one time_, and all throughout Kyle's absence for the past four years. He has loved him, and probably will continue to love Kyle until the day that Stan dies alone.

This revelation brings him to toss aside his shot glass. He just puts the bottle to his lips and drinks the shit straight.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you so much to my wonderful reviewers: lucy sinclair, conversefreak3, ObanesHarvest, Diatonic Dictator, KirstenTheDestroyer, ninemillionhigh, sami, WizerdBeards, Wendlekins, Reverse Psychology, TheAwesome15, Sunshine-aki, prettyoddrydonfan, Mallory, Chasing Rabbits, NiceBananas, R.R. Miaera, and WxTxR.**

**If you've read my other stories you'll know that I usually update faster than this, but I had a very **_**eventful**_** weekend, so this as a result did not get done as fast as I would have liked. **

**Questions/comments/suggestions? Hit me up.**


	3. Come Out and Say It

**Chapter Track: Broken Arm – Winterpills **

Kyle closes the front door quietly behind him. He's afraid that Kenny might be asleep. He sometimes naps during the day when he isn't at the shop. Kyle attributes this uncharacteristic exhaustion to being a surprise Baby Daddy. Sure, Wendy seems to be pretty insistent upon Kenny being very much _not _in the picture, but Kyle thinks that that is stressing the guy out even more. Kenny seems to be spending his adult life trying to prove he's nothing like the crazy-ass kid he was when he was a teenager.

In all honesty, Kyle feels a little bad on Kenny's behalf. If this exact situation had occurred when they were seventeen, Kenny would have been delighted at the prospect of being relieved of his responsibility in the matter. But now, when he's trying so hard to prove his worth, Wendy wants nothing to do with him. Of course, Kenny has indicated nothing of the sort to Kyle verbally – but living with Kenny, even just for these past few days, has told Kyle a lot about the years he's missed.

He missed a lot.

It would appear, actually, that Kyle missed a metric fuckton of South Park's goings-on, even when he _lived _here. Is he really that oblivious?

He leans back against the door and closes his eyes. Not that he'd expected coffee with Stan fucking Marsh to go well, but he had expected it to go better than it did. Too many pieces were falling into place and he didn't like it. Because, as the pieces did that falling and the dots did their connecting, he was looking more and more like the bad guy. He's wondering if he's as stupid as he seems to be.

And of all the things, he hadn't expected to end up discussing _that one time._

Kyle is snapped from his thoughts as he hears the door to the garage being opened and slammed shut. He wants desperately to talk to Kenny about the shit that went down with Stan, and he makes a move to go and greet him, but hears more than one voice.

"Do you want tea? I, uh, bought this weird pregnant lady tea," that's Kenny's voice. Kyle almost chuckles at Kenny's offer of the tea. He was there when Kenny was debating over buying it or not. _Do you think I'd just piss her off_? He'd asked. Kyle had told Kenny that it was just four dollar box of tea and he should go for it. Still, they'd sat in that aisle at the grocery store for like, five more minutes than necessary. Kenny held the pink and yellow box of Woman's Mother-To-Be tea, staring at it like it was some alien object. Which, to be fair, it kind of was.

That time was another instance in which Kyle realized how bad he felt for Kenny over this fiasco. South Park is fucking tiny. Everybody knows everybody else's business, and Kyle is certain that everybody must have seen Wendy and her baby belly by now. And soon afterward, they would have heard who fathered it.

When they'd checked out and Sally had swiped the box of tea, she gave Kenny a very pointed look. Kyle didn't like it, but Kenny acted like he was used to that judgmental bullshit.

"You shouldn't have," Kyle hears Wendy say, "Really. This isn't something that you need to worry about, okay?"

"It definitely is my concern, Wendy," Kenny says. There's an edge to his voice that Kyle hasn't heard in a really long time. He used to hear it sometimes when Cartman badgered Kenny too much with the poor jokes, or when one of them expressed concern over what at the time had been a dangerous lifestyle. "Now do you want some fucking tea or not?"

"There's no need to be an asshole," Wendy says tartly.

Kyle decides to make his presence known. One more overheard sentence and he's probably eavesdropping.

"Uh, hey guys," Kyle says, waving half-heartedly.

Kenny is rummaging in one of the kitchen cabinets, looking absolutely livid. He definitely appears more pissed off than he sounded, and Kyle wonders if the two of them argued during the entire car ride home. He also wonders where they ran off to. Kenny hasn't exactly been specific about his dynamic with Wendy. Mostly they just seem awkward and angry with each other.

When Kyle gives a lazy smile, Wendy's hands fall from her hips down to her sides, and she says, "Hi, Kyle."

"I thought you were getting coffee with Stan," Kenny remarks, sounding irritated. Kyle knows that his friend's annoyance isn't directed at him. Maybe it isn't even directed at Wendy. Kenny is just annoyed with the universe in general. He talks a lot – particularly after he's gotten some booze in him – about how pissed he is at the hand he was dealt by the world. But Kyle's impressed with what Kenny's accomplished. The shop, the house – he even owns Febreze.

To be fair, physically, Kenny does not look as responsible as he has become. He's tattooed up to his neck (Kyle's favorite one is the tattoo that's actually _on_ Kenny's neck – a squid, or maybe the one on his upper left arm – a skeleton in a top hat smoking a pipe), has a liking for facial piercings (though he keeps them to a minimum because of his work), and doesn't own a single dressy item of clothing. Kyle realizes it's ridiculous that one's responsibility should have anything to do with their outward appearance. Take Stan Asshole Marsh, for example. At Tweak Bros, he looked find of scruffy, but still like a respectable guy. And clearly, Stan's life is in the gutter.

Kyle rubs the back of his neck and says, "Yeah, uh, that didn't go very well."

"No?" Kenny does a half-turn and lifts his brows.

"Did you know Stan is gay?" Kyle asks.

"Yeah, dude. I thought you knew too?" Kenny raises his brows a second time, though this round it's in a manner that tells Kyle that Kenny is well-informed of what went down _that one time_.

Wendy mirrors Kenny's expression and asks, "Doesn't everybody know?"

"I didn't know until today, actually," Kyle says, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

"I can't believe you're that fucking oblivious, man," Kenny finally replies. He sticks a mug in the microwave and takes out one of the teabags from the pink and yellow box, "Like, this whole time, you've been in the dark. Seriously?"

Kyle feels a little frustrated now, being that Kenny is speaking to him like a child, and says, "No! I didn't know, okay? And now I feel really fucking retarded, because he was like, 'oh I was in love with you Kyle,' and this is first _I've_ heard of it, and then he like, kicks me out of the car after I try to kiss him. No, we did kiss. That's even worse. But what the flying fuck, am I right?"

Wendy and Kenny exchange a glance that Kyle does not at all like.

Slowly, Wendy asks, "So, this entire time, you…?" But she trails off, and gives Kenny a second meaningful look. He shrugs and takes out the hot water when the microwave beeps.

"This is good, though, right?" Kenny says, not to Kyle, but sort of to Wendy, and sort of to himself. He goes on, "We just thought you were being a dick. Now we know you're just fucking stupid."

"What? I am not," Kyle crosses his arms, but the similar looks of pity that Kenny and Wendy are wearing on their faces say it all. Where did he go wrong? He's spent this whole time thinking that Stan ignored him throughout their high school years, when maybe, Kyle was the one doing the ignoring. But how do you do that without knowing? He only started consciously being a dick to Stan sometime around when they were sixteen. And that was only because he thought that Stan was doing it first.

But Stan wasn't?

Kyle is confused and angry all at once. Somewhere in the midst of this, he manages to sit down at the kitchen table.

"Kyle?" He hears Kenny say. "You want something to drink? The only tea I have is the mom tea or whatever, but I don't think it'll kill you if you drink it. I have…um, beer?"

"Beer's fine," Kyle finds himself saying, "Do we have any of my beer left?"

"Your snobby college kid beer? Yeah, here," Kenny tosses a bottle to Kyle, and he catches it.

"So, you never knew?" Wendy asks. Kyle doesn't know when she decided to sit across from him at the table, but apparently this revelation has brought them all to their knees – she's drinking the tea that Kenny made her without a fight, and the pair of them actually seem to be getting along now that their own drama isn't the focus at the moment. It's actually kind of freaking him out, because Kenny's standing behind Wendy's chair, with one hand on her shoulder, and she doesn't even notice. Truthfully, their whole _thing_ together is still freaking him out. Possibly because Wendy is like, scary beautiful, and Kenny's just kind of a weirdo.

"Knew what? I have no idea what's going on anymore," Kyle says. He cracks open his microbrew and takes a long chug. The taste of alcohol doesn't help like he wanted it to. Instead, it reminds him of Stan taking out a flask in the middle of Tweak Bros like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"That Stan wanted your dick," Kenny says, at the same time that Wendy says, "That Stan had feelings for you."

"No. No, I didn't," Kyle says, chugging more beer, which continues to not help, "If I had known, none of this bullshit ever would have happened. I thought he was dating _you_ in high school?" He tosses an accusing look to Wendy, who quietly asks if Kenny will get her more tea. He nods, taking her mug.

She folds her fingers together and explains, "We were, sort of. At the risk of sounding pretentious, I think I might have been the first person that he came out to. He asked me to continue to date him so that nobody would know. He was very self-conscious about it, particularly after you and he…well."

Kyle groans, "You know about that? How do you know about that? Does _everybody_ know about that one time? Fuck."

"Yeah, kind of," Kenny says from where he's standing at the microwave, "To be fair, Stan didn't tell me until the summer before you left. Shit, though, my mind was blown. Like, you didn't know he wanted your dick when he had his mouth on it?"

Kyle puts his face in his hands.

"Kenny, that's obscene," scolds Wendy.

"It's true, though," he insists.

"I thought –" Kyle begins, but then he says, "I don't know what I thought. I'm gonna go take a nap. I don't think I want to talk about this anymore."

He leaves his half-finished beer sitting on the kitchen table, and he can't help but feel like he's stomping away from this conversation like a child that's clearly been caught red-handed in the wrong. And he feels like an asshole.

Kenny's guest room is comforting to him. He doesn't know why, but he feels like Kenny took extra care to make the guest room look nice. It's tiny, because Kenny's whole house is tiny, but it's homey, too. There's a quilt that _Kenny made himself_ on the bed ("You quilt? Kyle had asked. Kenny had told him in response, "Fuck yeah I do. It's like, meditative? Or some shit."). Kyle has grown to like it though. The patches are made out of old worn out pairs of jeans, so it's got a good weight to it. Kyle can't stand fluffy blankets. They bother him.

Plus it's kind of hilarious when he and Kenny crash on the couch and watch cartoons together, and Kenny just sits at this little rickety table he has and starts up his sewing machine.

He wonders if Kenny's quilting hobby will gain him any points with Wendy.

Kyle sits on top of the blanket, kicking his loafers off onto the carpet below. He tugs his pillow against his head like he's hugging it.

Is it really possible that _he's_ the asshole? He's spent all this time firmly believing that that can't be true. Surely he gave Stan enough chances to prove himself as a friend again? That's what he always thought. Now he isn't so certain.

Why _didn't_ he take that one time seriously? Looking back, he remembers the feeling of believing his reasoning was sound and important, but now he can't even come up with what those sound and important reasons were. It wasn't as though he hadn't ever thought of what they'd done after it was over. In fact, he'd used that as his masturbation material for years afterward. They didn't have sex, really, they just spent like, three hours naked together. And it was awesome. Kyle remembers it as one of the most awesome days of his entire life, still, even now.

They'd already been fighting by then, for a long time. They barely spoke to each other, though at that point Stan did still hang around them after and before school.

They were assigned to a project together. It was a biology project. They were supposed to make a diorama of a cell – not an actual cell, mind you, but something to _represent _a cell. "Like a house, or a school," their teacher had told them.

They were making a castle. Kyle was doing a bad job of pretending to be paying attention to their work. He couldn't help it. Every time he looked at Stan, a million questions started forming in his mind. He wanted to know why they were fighting. He wanted to know if Stan was okay. He wanted to know why the fuck Stan looked so attractive to him. Why he had a detailed, unbelievably hot dream starring the both of them together.

"Hey Kyle?" Stan looked up from the foam board he was painting.

Kyle pretended that he hadn't been staring. Kyle said, "Hmm, yeah?"

Stan didn't speak at first, he just set aside his paintbrush and the still-damp square that he'd been painting on.

And they looked at each other.

Stan looked so much more tired than he used to. So much less like the laughing, joking, mischief-making, occasionally-hippie, definitely sensitive guy that Kyle was best friends with. He didn't even groom himself like he usually did. Kyle felt weird for noticing, but it was impossible not to. Stan looked like he hadn't showered in days, and his grey hoodie and too-small t-shirt appeared to be last night's pajamas. His lips were sealed in a permanent frown. Kyle wanted to make his super best friend smile again, but he didn't know how. He didn't understand what the hell was wrong with Stan. What happened? What had changed? One day, they were together and happy, and the next, Stan wanted nothing to do with the world.

It sucked.

He wanted his old best friend back.

"I miss you!" Kyle blurted. He clapped a hand over his mouth immediately after the words left him. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. Why did he do that? He shouldn't have done that.

But Stan didn't get angry. Instead, Stan leaned over their partially-built castle-cell-thing, and kissed him.

Kyle was surprised. He remembered being surprised. So surprised that all he really did was make an _oomph_ noise, and lean into Stan's lips. Kyle has always had a thing for those lips. He'll never mention for fear of sounding like an infatuated preteen, but he's spent a damn good amount of time thinking of Stan's lips. How they're shaped like lips in a magazine ad for chapstick. How soft they are.

They were really soft during that first kiss. Stan was, and remains, an abuser of Carmex. Their first kiss and that kiss in Stan's scratched up Ford tasted like Carmex, and Kyle didn't mind either time, because it was a Stan taste, and Stan was fucking awesome.

Stan had pulled Kyle over their half-finished project, and they landed in a heap on the floor of Kyle's bedroom, all tangled up together. It was awkward and messy, and when Kyle thinks about it now, not sexy at all. But, being fourteen, he had at the time found the situation as erotic as ever. Having recurring sex dreams about Stan and being jam-packed with uncontrollable hormones didn't help his cause either. He got hard almost instantly.

And then he'd accidentally brushed against Stan.

"Oh, shit," Kyle's whole face had turned bright red, and he'd yanked himself out of their…entanglement as if he'd just found out that Stan had the plague. He'd put his face in his hands and muttered, "Shit, shit. I'm so sorry, dude."

Stan hadn't seemed to mind much.

Thinking on it now, that should have weirded Kyle out. He should have thought 'Stan is not acting like himself, maybe I should ask him what's wrong.' But he hadn't, because he was a stupid teenage kid with a boner and a guy with a hand halfway into his boxers. It had felt good. He had liked it. He was surprised and confused still, sure, but that didn't change the fact that something he had dreamed out was actually occurring in real life. He vaguely remembers wondering about Wendy. The track that had been going through his fourteen-year-old brain had been something like _oh god oh shit oh Jesus oh fuck what are we doing he's my super best friend doesn't he have a girlfriend nobody knows I'm gay yet but it feels good and I want him and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck._

In short, he hadn't been thinking coherently at all.

So when Stan had asked, "Is this okay?" Kyle naturally had just nodded his head dumbly and murmured, "Yeah."

That was how he ended up on his bedroom floor with his jeans down around his ankles and Stan's mouth all over him.

Now he's wondering if Stan was sober. He wonders if Stan got drunk before _that one time_.

And that makes him sick to his stomach.

**o.o.o.o**

When Kyle wakes up, the sun is low in the sky, giving everything an orange glow. He comes downstairs to see that Wendy has left, and Kenny's in a mood – judging by his sullen expression and the fact that he's watching Up, which Kyle has quickly discovered is Kenny's go-to movie when he's pissed off.

"Baby mama drama?" Kyle says lightly, rubbing the last of the sleep out of his eyes.

"Go fuck yourself," Kenny says, which is sure confirmation that Kenny and Wendy fought again while Kyle was napping.

While still a little groggy, the nap did give him some clarity in his mind. He's still confused as fuck and all fuzzy on what the hell high school meant now that he knows much more about it, but he doesn't want Stan to hate him. Or, at least, he doesn't want Stan to feel the way that he did when they were sitting in the Ford outside of Kenny's house. Stan looked nothing short of tortured, which makes Kyle feel disgusting. He just feels like a shithead in general. And he thinks that he's figured out a way to sort of make it up to Stan, but he could be wrong. He could _definitely_ be wrong. After all, he and Stan don't know much about each other at all. Not anymore.

He misses knowing everything about Stan.

But apparently he's never known that much at all.

"Hey Kenny?"

"What, asshole?" Kenny says, popping a Cheesy Poof in his mouth and washing it down with a swig of cheap beer. He starts mouthing the lines of the movie as they occur, and usually Kyle would rip on him for it, but he seems to be in a genuinely terrible mood.

"Stan still really likes animals, right?"

"I told you he works at the shelter, dipshit," answers Kenny, "and he's got like an army of dogs, so yeah. I'm pretty sure he likes animals more than he likes any of us."

"An army?"

"Three, whatever, same thing," Kenny says, "Now will you shut the fuck up? I'm trying to watch a movie, douchebag."

Kyle ignores this and asks, "Where does he live?"

That gets Kenny's attention. He puts Up on pause, swivels around and says, "Nuh-uh. Nope. You are not going to go over there. You will be inviting trouble, you stupid fucker."

"I won't stay for long, I just want to apologize," Kyle explains.

Kenny shakes his head, "I thought you understood, dude. Right now, what you're doing? It's not cool. You're leading him on. Just leave Stan alone, and everything will be back to normal when you leave in August."

"But –"

"No, Kyle," Kenny snaps, "I'm serious. He doesn't need your bullshit right now."

"I'm trying to apologize for my 'bullshit.' What's wrong with that?" Kyle is struggling to keep his voice even. He does want to fight with Kenny. The both of them have been through enough for the day. But he can't help the prickling of his temper at the back of his neck. He clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides, reminding himself to breathe. He thinks that the reason he's so angry is because Kenny's telling the truth. On a regular basis, Kenny's mostly just a troll – he'll tease Kyle to get a rise out of him. But he's not teasing now, he's dead fucking serious. And that upsets Kyle more than anything.

Kenny heaves a sigh. He explains, sounding eerily like a mother hen, "Look. If you do this, if you like, get involved with him, and he lets you in, you seriously might kill him. Because I know Stan is gonna let you in. He'll always make an exception for you because you're his super best friend or whatever. And then you're gonna go back to school, and leave him here. It will kill him."

"I'm not going over to fuck him, Kenny, I'm going over to apologize for being an asshole," Kyle says, irritated. Kenny's always had a habit of making his relationship with Stan seem like much more than it is. At this point, Kyle and Stan aren't even acquaintances, really. That doesn't mean that Kyle doesn't care that Stan hates him, though. So he wants to say he's sorry.

Kenny inhales evenly and drums his fingers on the arm of the sofa before saying, "Fine. He lives in those little townhouses they built a couple years ago. His house number's twenty-three. But I swear to God, Kyle, if you wreck him, I will fucking end you. I will end you slowly, and I will end you painfully. I'm not kidding around, dude."

"I won't," Kyle says, "Thanks, dude."

"Don't thank me. And don't fuck this up," Kenny grumbles, but his attention is already turned back to his movie as Kyle slips out the front door.

He walks to his destination – just the grocery store, and realizes that he had forgotten how beautiful the mountains are in the summer. It's unfortunately fucking hot right now, someplace in the nineties. The temperature seems to reach its peak right about now, around five in the evening. It's hot enough that Kyle feels a little overdressed in his pants and t-shirt, and wishes he had swapped his bottoms for shorts.

Kyle buys the sort of apology gift that he thinks the old Stan would appreciate – a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and some nice-looking treats for Stan's dogs. Kyle thinks about how back in New Hampshire, there was a little place a few blocks from his apartment that sold gourmet dog treats, and how he should have bought some of those. But he didn't know that Stan worked at South Park's animal shelter until after he arrived back in Colorado, and he didn't know about Stan owning any dogs until just a few minutes ago.

He knows that a bag of Doritos and some dog treats aren't nearly enough to apologize for high school, but they can at least be his apology for today. He hopes. Kyle doesn't like feeling like an idiot, and he definitely feels like an idiot now.

The outside of Stan's townhouse looks pretty standard. It isn't nearly as decorated as the house attached to Stan's, which is draped in wind chimes and hanging plants in pots painted with colorful, abstract designs. If he had to hazard a guess at who lives there, he would probably say Tweek – and so Kyle isn't surprised when, as he's staring, the curtains in the front window open just slightly, and Tweek's owlish eyes peer at him. It's only for a second, though. Tweek snaps the curtains closed again and retreats back into his house.

Kyle knocks lightly on Stan's door, but nobody answers. When he rings the bell a couple of times, he hears a deep bark, followed by more. Two dogs appear at the front window – a mastiff and a dalmatian. He wonders where the third one is. And he wonders why the ruckus that these two are creating hasn't gotten Stan's attention. Maybe Stan went out? But there aren't many places to go in South Park, and Kyle didn't see him hanging around near Main Street at all.

After he rings the bell a third time and there's no answer, he accepts that he won't get to apologize in person. So, he fishes a sharpie out of the pocket of his pants and writes on the bag of Doritos '_I'm sorry'_ before leaving them and the dog treats side by side on the welcome mat.

When he returns to Kenny's, Kenny seems to have mellowed out a little. He's not as tense-looking, but maybe the beer's just working its magic.

"How'd it go?" asks Kenny.

"It didn't. I don't think he was home," replies Kyle.

"He was probably passed-out shitfaced drunk," Kenny grunts in return.

Kyle frowns. He queries, "You think so?"

"Yeah, he doesn't do much else other than go to work, come home, get drunk, and do it all again the next day," Kenny shrugs, like this means nothing.

"How do you know?" Kyle asks. He kind of hopes it isn't true, even though he saw Stan with his flask in Tweak Bros earlier that day, and even though he wondered about it at his welcome home party when he saw Stan with a beer in his hand. Kyle guesses that he somehow hoped that Stan would figure his shit out, because usually that's what Stan would do. Figure it out. Kyle feels like his entire high school years were getting drunk dialed by Stan and having to pick him up from some godforsaken bar in the middle of nowhere, where Stan wouldn't be recognized as being the Marsh kid – so he could use the fake ID that Kenny had made him.

Kenny says, "I've had to clean him up a couple of times, you know? Hold is head over the toilet n'shit. And sometimes he's so piss drunk he can't figure out how to get up and feed his damn dogs, so he calls me."

"Jesus," says Kyle, "Why haven't you –"

"Tried to get him to stop? You know how he is about the AA. Even though I really think that they could help him, he refuses to go. Last time I suggested it he gave me black eye. You wouldn't believe the hook that dude has when he's plastered. It's incredible," Kenny remarks.

"How can you talk about this so _casually_?" Kyle demands.

Kenny narrows his eyes at Kyle and says, "Look, dude. You don't just get to barge back into town and suddenly care about Stan. I know that that makes perfect sense to you, but he's always been this way, and _you_ mostly ignored it." Kenny pauses, "Holy shit. I don't have the time to argue about this. I've got enough on my plate already without getting caught between you and Stan having your own little dramafest. Sorry, bro. I'm out." Kenny strides out of the room and up the stairs without another word.

Great.

Kyle's pissing off everybody.

He takes the last bottle of his good beer out of the fridge and cracks it open, wandering into the small living room and flopping onto the couch.

He runs over why he's so pissed off in his head, over and over like movie reel.

Stan did care. Stan did try. Stan can't stop drinking. Kyle's an asshole. Kyle's a drama queen. Kyle involves other people in his bullshit.

He didn't mean to get Kenny involved. He shouldn't have. It's just that Kyle misses having a super best friend desperately. He doesn't have anybody to talk to around here. He'd even settle for Butters at this point, but he wouldn't touch Butters with ten foot pole now that Cartman is permanently attached to the guy's side (At least that's what it looked like at Kyle's welcome party. Cartman's arm was slung over Butters the entire time, except for the five minutes that he took to go to the bathroom).

Kyle left South Park – left this all behind. It didn't affect anybody. People carried on without him. His absence was of no consequence. He doesn't know why it would be, but it doesn't stop the knowledge from hurting like hell.

And now…

Well, now.

He's lonely.

**o.o.o.o**

**Standing ovation for my beautiful reviewers: Sami, Bubbl3wrapguy, Mallory, KirstenTheDestroyer, conversefreak3, Reverse Psychology, CanIsay, m3rcy616, Crazy88inator, TheAwesome15, Sunshine-aki, lucy sinclair, Red Shiloh, MariePierre, and SugarCoatedMuffin.**

**Lol look I got a chapter out in time what even is this. **

**Seriously, though. If you have comments/questions/suggestions, let me know! I take everything into consideration. A lot of things that happen in my fics happen because of you guys. :D **


	4. I Was Steady, You Were Fleeting

**Chapter Track: Punkbitch – 3OH!3**

Stan's head feels like it's bursting open. He clutches at it and whines, only realizing after several agonizing seconds that the reason his head is so overwrought is because the alarm on his cellphone is blaring in shrill beeps. He remembered last night to set it – someplace in between a second terrible Lifetime movie that seemed diverting when inebriated and a rerun of Law and Order: SVU, which he has become inexplicably addicted to – because he has work today, practically all day.

From where the pug is situated on Stan's stomach, Thor gives a snort of surprise when Stan shifts to his side to turn off the earsplitting noise. Looks like he fell asleep on the couch again. Sure enough, another cop show is playing on the television in front of him, on mute. He scratches Thor behind the ears, thanking God that yesterday he remembered to close the curtains over the window that faces east.

"Sorry, bud," Stan mutters, and even talking so little is too much for him. He groans as he pulls himself out from under his pug and Lucy – who decided sometime during the night that Stan's legs looked like a good place to sleep. Must he always wake up under a pile of dogs?

He massages his temples and opens the sliding glass door to his square of back yard. Most of the yards up in South Park aren't fenced off, but he paid to have his done so that his dogs would be safe when he let them out. While he is certain Daisy could handle herself, she's a big dog and tough shit (he had adopted her after no one would – she had come to the shelter from an abusive household, and was and remains hostile to everybody that wasn't him), but Thor and Lucy, if let out into the wild of the Rockies, would probably a) get lost or b) get eaten.

The sun is only barely peeking up from behind the ridge of mountains, but the light is too much. Stan covers his eyes and holds his head, hissing in pain while he ushers his dogs outside to do their business. He brews a pot of Folgers. If he wasn't so hungover, he'd probably laugh about how pissed Tweek would be that Stan was using Folgers again. When the guy moved in next door, he'd given Stan an assortment of expensive coffee beans. They'd been good, for sure, but Stan is way, _way_ too lazy to go out of his way to buy more nice coffee. While he waits for it to brew, he swishes back four ibuprofen with a Tupperware cup of lukewarm tap water.

Fuck, mornings suck.

His only consolation is that he will mostly be working with animals, today. Typically he has one of his assistants talk to people. He fucking hates people – in the morning, mostly. He probably won't be able to hide this hangover. It's fucking terrible. He hasn't had one so bad in a long ass time, but then he realizes that he didn't have reasons quite as good as Kyle Broflovski being back in town to drink the night away. And the afternoon. And whenever, really.

Shit.

Stan's in bad shape. He knows that. He doesn't want to know that. He wants to be blissfully unaware, but fucking Kyle makes him so _aware_, aware of himself and of his life and every pathetic thing around him. He wants to come up with somebody whose life sucks more than his, and he thinks, at least I didn't get a one night stand pregnant – but Kenny is super happy all the fucking time like the little shit that he is, and Wendy is gorgeous, always has been, _and_ she's freed him from any sort of responsibility relating to the pregnancy. And for whatever reason, that pisses Kenny off.

Everybody has somebody but him, it seems.

And now Kenny is more responsible than his deadbeat ass. When the fuck did that happen? Sometime in the last four years, he guesses. Why didn't he notice?

Not too long ago, on a day as bad as this, he'd just go for drinks with his dad. But, since his parents separated (permanently, this time), Randy moved not only out of South Park, but out of Colorado, and to LA. There, he is apparently enjoying the good life in a tiny, shitty-ass apartment, with a girlfriend that has ridiculously bright blond hair and favors blue eyeshadow. She seems like an okay lady, Stan thinks. She's never been nothing but nice to him, but she also seems to be clinging on to her youth. Her youth definitely does not exist anymore.

Not that he had any room to talk about clinging onto the past.

Fuck.

Stan tries not to look at himself as he undresses for his shower, but he catches glimpses of his sunken eyes and his greasy hair and his fucked-up posture from falling asleep on the couch so much. He looks like shit. He's probably never looked worse in his life. Meanwhile, Kyle college-asshole-graduate Broflovski looks perfect. Well groomed son of a bitch. Stan's blood boils at the thought of how fucking _good_ Kyle looked yesterday. Stan shouldn't have kidded himself into thinking that he'd be actually missed by somebody. What a joke. He didn't matter to Kyle, he hadn't in a long time. He needed to stop confusing fantasy with reality.

The spray of hot water from the showerhead is soothing. Stan leans his forehead against the tile wall and rubs his eyes.

Awesome. Hungover crying in the shower. Just when he thinks that he's reached his lowest point, he discovers that there is no low that is low enough for pathetic Stan Marsh. Shit, he is a waste of space.

Stan knows that he has to put on the pretense of being put-together at work, even if his coworkers all know the truth. He just can't look like as much of a wreck as he feels like. As much of a wreck as he _is._ He shampoos and conditions and shaves – managing to do so while only cutting himself twice, a brilliant record for being in such a crap state.

Stan's work slacks are a little wrinkled, but he's afraid if he takes out his iron that he'll burn himself. This hangover is making him retarded. He's just slow, and his brain feels all sticky and throbbing, and like it's banging around in his skull. He decides to just go with it. Nobody will notice that they're wrinkled if they're black, right? He has the same dilemma with his button-ups that he should wear, so he digs a polo out of the darkest depths of his closet. The fit is a little tight. He doesn't think he's worn a polo since he was like…fifteen. But he'll have a lab coat over it, so hopefully nobody will see that it's a bit…snug.

Stan lets his dogs back in after he fills their bowls with kibble and refills the water dish. The dogs are far more enthusiastic about their breakfasts than he is about his own – Folgers and Captain Crunch. He sips at the crappy coffee as he goes out the front for the newspaper.

There's a crunch when he lands on his front step.

Stan looks down.

"What the fuck?" he mutters. It's a fucking bag of Doritos. He stoops to pick it up, squinting at the strangely neat script across the front of it.

_I'm sorry._

What an _asshole._

Okay, sure, they're Stan's favorite kind of chips. Yes, awesome, Kyle can remember some insignificant detail about him. Who does that little shit think he is? What a way to apologize to him for the last four fucking years. For the last _eight_ years, now that he thinks about it. He takes a swig of his coffee like it's alcohol, because he forgets that he didn't have alcohol in his hand. He ends up with a burnt tongue and grunts in frustration.

When Stan ducks down to grab the newspaper, he sees a second bag where the Doritos were.

A bag of dog treats.

Kenny must have told Kyle about the dogs.

The second gift is slightly better than the first, but this still pisses Stan off beyond belief.

In the end, he forgets getting the newspaper completely, tossing the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos into his snack cabinet and feeding the treats to his dogs while he tries to swallow soggy spoonfuls of cereal.

When Stan arrives at work, Heidi greets him brightly. Too brightly, in his opinion, for this hour of the morning.

They never get much traffic in the shelter. Usually, Stan is mostly on call to go out and see the animals at the outlying farms. Most people up in the mountains don't keep house pets. There is an actual danger of them being attacked and eaten, and that deters greater portion of the community. The only people around South Park that he knows keep pets are Craig – who owns a pair of guinea pigs, and Heidi – who has a couple of cats. He seems to recall Kenny saying at one point that he wanted to get a parrot, but Stan thinks he was joking, because Kenny just talked about how he wanted to teach it to greet people by saying "Hey, bitch!"

He supposes the lack of traffic is the reason why Butters arrives at noon, without having made an appointment, with a whining kitten in his arms.

Stan raises his brows when Butters looks down at the cat and scolds, "Mr. Kitty, you shush, now. You know Eric doesn't like your meowing," when Butters blinks back up, he spots Stan and greets merrily, "Hey there, Stan! I brought Mr. Kitty in to get him some shots."

Stan must have made a face, because Butter's cheerfulness dims a bit and he asks timidly, "That's okay, right? You're not too busy, are you?"

"Of course not, Butters," Stan says tiredly. He brings Butters and Mr. Kitty back to the only exam room in the entire office. The grey kitten is a little loud. He wonders if Cartman goes out of his way to find loud cats to yell at.

"He's in good shape, it looks like," Stan says, as he checks the kitten's ears, "Where'd you get him?"

"Oh, Eric and I got him from a breeder down in Littleton. Very nice lady," Butters says, "Uh, Stan? Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, dude," replies Stan, thinking Butters wants to know how much the vaccines will cost for his cat, or want to know what a good kibble to buy is – something like that.

But Butters goes in a completely different direction, "I hope you don't mind me askin', but, uh, Stan, a-are you okay?"

Stan stares for a second and responds, "I'm fine, Butters."

"It's just that with Kyle back in town, I was thinkin' that –"

"Kyle has nothing to do with me," Stan says, voice flat. He and Kyle haven't been friends for _eight fucking years_. How does everybody in South Park still associate them with each other? Fucking hell.

And like that, a sudden wave of illness swamps over him. Stan feels a horrible twist in his stomach, and mumbles, "Excuse me. I'll be right back."

Stan only just makes it to the bathroom in time to get his head in the toilet bowl. He still doesn't feel better after vomiting once, and he throws up again, the second time more sour and watery and stinging as it comes up from his throat. Shit. He's in no condition to work. He should be back at home nursing this hangover. Fucking hell.

As he's spitting into the toilet water, he feels a hand rest on his shoulder. It's Butters – with the kitten squirming in his other arm and mewling its rage at being held in such a way. Butters hushes the thing and says, "Mr. Kitty and I can come back another day. I think you should go home, mister."

"Fuck off," Stan manages weakly, resting his head on the rim of the toilet bowl.

Butters frowns deeply at his hostility. He says, "N-now Stan, that's no way to talk to people. We love you, you know. Why, you're one of my favorite people in South Park. It kills me to see you like this. I wish you'd get better."

"You are a presumptuous little shit, you know that?" Stan's voice echoes against the toilet. He's humiliated, to be honest. What fucking luck. He couldn't have vomited _before _Butters came in? For Christ's sake, it feels like the universe is just taking a shit on him for kicks. Now Butters will probably go back home to his husband and tell fucking Cartman about everything. And once Cartman knows, everybody will know. Stan already gets enough disapproving looks from the townspeople as it is. Even asshole Craig gave him _the look_ yesterday, when the bastard should have been delighted at Stan's patronage to the liquor store that employed him. What a dick.

Because Butters stays quiet, just rubbing Stan's back with his free hand, Stan spits out, "You never gave a fuck in high school, why do you care so much now?" He didn't add that he didn't think that anybody should care about him, that they would be wasting their time on a worthless shit like him.

"Oh, uh, I've always cared, Stan," Butters says, and he sounds sincere. Butters' honesty pisses Stan off all the more as the guy keeps talking, "People didn't pay much attention to me then, either. I had, uh, l-lots of problems with my parents, you know, and with Eric n' me fightin' all the time…high school was tough times for all of us. But I promise I cared about you. I still do. Really."

Butters always manages to make Stan feel like an asshole. Butters' lectures aren't like lectures from Kenny. In high school, Kenny used to get trashed right along with Stan, though by the time they graduated, his enthusiasm for drinking and drugs seemed to have waned for whatever reason. Nonetheless, the facts were facts, and Kenny has no room to harangue Stan on his drinking habits. Even now, Kenny remains a bit of a lush, though nothing like his old teenaged self.

But Butters. Fucking Butters. Butters puts up with so much bullshit. He did back in high school, too. Butters probably had it worse off than anybody, Stan included, and he managed to push through it all with his dopey smile still on his face. For fuck's sake, in their junior year, Butters had ended up at Hell's Pass for a couple weeks because his dad had beaten the shit out of him so bad. And he's _still_ chipper as fuck.

"I hate you," Stan groans. He pushes himself back onto his feet and stumbles over to the paper towel dispenser, where he wipes the bile off of his lips. He splashes a little water onto his face. He still looks like shit. Maybe even worse than he did when he left his house that morning. But, he does feel a lot better now that he's barfed.

Butters is smiling when he turns around, and he says to Stan, "I love you, too."

Once Stan has managed to sober up to a level acceptable to Butters, they return to the exam room and he gives the new Mr. Kitty standard vaccines – FRVCP and rabies. He doesn't think the kitten needs anything other than the core medication. The cat must have come from a reputable breeder, though he supposes that Cartman wouldn't have gone for anything but the best.

He feels shockingly high-spirited (by that, he means he's neutral – a rare occurrence indeed. Typically Stan finds himself either enraged at the world, absolutely despondent, or mulling over the fact that he's a shitstain on the planet's underwear) after Butters visit. For some reason, that guy just has a happy effect on the people around him. It's nice to have that for a little bit, because the rest of Stan's workday goes to absolute and complete shit.

He hates when he has to put down animals. He'll only ever do it as a last resort. Unfortunately, a lot of people are fucking stupid and won't call him up when signs of sickness first start to show. He's never been like that with his own animals. As soon as any of them showed the remotest sign of being uncomfortable, he will check them out and get them what they need. He doesn't think of it as overreaction, he thinks of it as loving the fuck out of his dogs. They were, after all, his only friends around here.

But today, man, fuck today.

Stan has to put down a calf, because the fucking assholes taking care of him didn't think to call him up as soon as the little guy started to look bad. Idiots. If anyone should know that the babies are more susceptible to internal worms, it should be cattle farmers. And _then_, when he arrives back at the office, somebody's brought in a dog with a bite from what Stan guesses has to have been a mountain lion. If he'd gotten back like fifteen fucking minutes sooner, he might have been able to save it.

Jesus, some days, he hates his job. Today is one of those days. He even stows himself in his office and locks the door so he can have a moment alone with his flask. He knows he shouldn't be drinking on the job. It's irresponsible, whatever. But his shift is already almost over and he's itching to get out of town. Stan feels suffocated. Maybe it's because of his terrible day, or maybe it's because of his proximity to Kyle. Whichever it is, it doesn't quite matter, because by seven in the evening, Stan has already resolved that he will be driving down to Denver to have himself an actual night. It's Saturday. He should be able to do whatever the fuck he wants.

Stan ever gussies up a little after he's let his dogs out. He puts mousse in his hair (he didn't even know he owns mousse. He assumes that it must be something that his mom or Shelly got him for Christmas or something. Does mousse expire? If it does, this mousse is probably expired), pulls on a douchey-looking black v-neck and some jeans that don't have holes in them, and spritzes cologne onto himself (he also didn't realize he owns cologne).

The drive to Denver is about two hours, give or take a few minutes – but it's also an attractive drive. And fortunately, it won't be dark until like nine, since it's mid-June and it almost never seems to be dark. At least, that's what it feels like when you're hungover.

Denver is actually sometimes overwhelming for Stan. Intuitively, he knows that it isn't a very large city, at least compared to a place like New York City or Los Angeles (the latter of which he hates - mostly because of the crush of people and the fucking _traffic_, how do Californians survive? - but he'll visit because his dad acts like Stan has mortally wounded him if he doesn't visit at least once a year). But he is, and always has been, a small town kid. No matter how much weird shit goes down in South Park, the oddest feeling to Stan is being in a brightly lit, well-populated city. Saturday nights are especially intimidating, with all the people roaming around drunk in sequined outfits or suits, or just plain old guys with their hats tipped to the side, like assholes. There are always the hipsters, too. Stan tends to avoid their hangouts, though when he thinks on it, Kyle looks a bit hipster-esque. Probably an aftereffect of going to a fancy college.

What a dick.

Stan's favorite club is actually on the outskirts of Denver, kind of in one of the sketchy, industrial-looking areas. It's called Tracks – and while hella sketch on the outside, it's awesome on the inside. It's fucking fun, too, because it's queer friendly, and there, it seems like people don't have any inhibitions. He never would have found it without Kenny, though. Kenny always attempts to get him out, and Stan seldom does of his volition. Tonight's an exception. Tonight, he has a shitload of things running through his mind that he just wants to forget. He wants to forget his awful day at work, to begin with. He wants to forget Kyle Broflovski. And Goddamnit, he wants to forget high school.

Because, fuck. Just, fuck.

Before Kyle's return, high school was neatly tucked behind him. But every time Stan sees Kyle's face, he remembers every hurt, every snub, every drink he had, every time he broke down because he missed his super best friend, every last asshole moment he indulged in. It's humiliating.

He downs the remainder of the contents of his flask after he's parked his car in the lot behind Tracks. Stan wants to have loosened up before he goes in there. He wants to prove to himself that he isn't hung up on some long-dead super best friendship. He wants to prove to himself that he can live his life without the assholes up in South Park. He can find an attractive guy on his own. He's done it by himself before.

…Once.

Usually Kenny helps him.

But he'll do it by himself again tonight.

_Fuck you, Kyle. Other people like me. I don't need your half-assed shitty apologies on Dorito bags. I don't need you at all. _

Stan tosses the empty flask on the passenger seat of his Ford, takes in a shuddering breath, and stalks toward the club.

Inside, it feels like the swarm of people is at like, ten million, even though it's barely past ten at night. The thick beat of the music makes his head go all swimmy when it's combined with strobe lights. The thick of gyrating bodies on the dance floor is still intimidating – he makes a beeline for the bar, first. He has to drink his way into confidence. He doesn't have confidence for real, not anymore. It's in him in tiny reserves, reserves that are tapped only when somebody has supremely pissed him off. Like Kyle, yesterday. For instance.

Fuck.

Gotta stop thinking of Kyle.

Stop stop stop.

Stan orders a shot of vodka and tips it back. He eyes a couple of the other people at the bar. There's a pair of girls dressed up in raver gear. There's a scene he'll never understand, though Kenny briefly got into the rave scene when he was around fifteen. Stan thinks. His timelines always seem too fuzzy and fucked up, but he seems to recall Kenny owning a pair of fuzzy orange leg warmers and shit ton of multicolored beaded bracelets.

He orders another shot.

Stan's eyes land on a guy in light-colored muscle shirt and jeans. He looks nice and unassuming, the type that Stan tends to go for. That's not what draws Stan to the guy, though. No, it's the fact that this man has red hair. It isn't curly, like Kyle's, it's short and spiky. But that's good enough for Stan. By the time he's ready to go and talk or dance or whatever with this guy, he's downed his sixth shot.

"Hey," he says, and he thinks he's probably slurring.

The guy looks him up and down and replies with a, "Hey," back. He sounds about as fucked up as Stan is, and now that he's close, he can smell the weed radiating off of the guy.

Stan gives the guy what feels like a charming smile, but it reality is a drunken attempt at flirtation. It wouldn't work on somebody sober, somebody sober probably would have slapped Stan across the face by now. His hands reach forward and he pulls the guy onto the dance floor just as the song changes to something by 3OH!3. The obligatory one or two people hoot or bark out, "THREE OH THREE!" and hold up their hands in the band's symbol. Stan's guilty of doing that himself once or twice, he has to admit. It's fun to have a band from Colorado and feel like it gives your state some street cred (Even though Stan thinks the Flobots are better).

Stan grinds himself against the redheaded guy. They don't even know each other's names. That's fine. He's perfectly content with pretending that this guy is Kyle Broflovski, even though Kyle is taller and more slender and wouldn't ever wear an ugly muscle shirt. Stan doesn't think that he's been this physically close to another human being for months. The last time Kenny took Stan out on the town was back in March, before the whole Wendy chaos began. And even then, Stan tended to stand on the outskirts, watching other people enjoy themselves and drinking himself into a stupor.

He's getting kind of horny being so close to another guy. One that looks like Kyle, anyway. His breath starts coming out in pants. He's pressed up against so many people, and he's sweating like crazy, sweating everywhere. It's dripping down his forehead and past his lips. He can taste it. Salt on top of the sour aftertaste of too much alcohol.

Abruptly, he's torn from his position behind this guy, and thrown back onto the dance floor. He lands on his back. At first nobody notices. They're too into the music and the moment, and they step on Stan's arms and clothes. But then the same redheaded guy is standing right above him, at least, he thinks so – and he says, "Hey, what the fuck, pervert?"

Stan doesn't know what he's talking about until he notices the category five erection tenting his nice jeans. Sweet. He just pushed his boner up against some anonymous guy's ass. If that's not embarrassing, Stan doesn't know what is.

"Sooo-rrrryy, Kyle," Stan slurs out. His head kind of hurts. Some girl with pigtails in her hair offers him a hand to help him up, but the redheaded guy shoves her to the side.

And he punches Stan in the face.

"What the fuck?" Stan manages. He scoots back on his ass, away from the dude, but the crowd is too thick. He just ends up with somebody's white platform boots kicking him in the head, and a couple of panty-shots he could have done without. He wobbles as he stands, and glares at the nameless guy, his replacement Kyle, holding out his arms and saying, "Hey, you want go, asshole? Right here, buddy." He sounds eerily like his dad, but he's too drunk to really notice.

The guy delivers a second punch directly to Stan's face.

This time, the crowd notices. Somebody gives a yelp of surprise – probably the tall guy in the purple skirt that Stan just fell back into – and others give a collective gasp. Somebody yells, "Fight!"

Stan pitches his first forward, connecting with the guy's gut. The dude falls to the ground just like Stan had before, except that people clear out so that he'll fall without being stomped on.

That's when reality blurs. What Stan sees is Kyle on the ground, that stupid bastard. The dickface that made every waking moment of his teenage years absolutely miserable. The one that was Stan's super best friend one day, and the asshole that didn't give two shits about him the next. An angry half-roar tears out of Stan's throat, and he dives forward, tackling replacement-Kyle to the dance floor again as he attempts to get back onto his feet.

"Fuck you!" Stan shouts, a fist smashing into the face of replacement-Kyle. He can't stop his fists from flying after that. He's angry, so angry, and all he wants to do is see this guy dead. Fucking dead.

"I kept trying, and I kept trying, but you never cared," Stan cries out. He's sobbing now. That's unfortunate. He's always been a bit of crier when he's drunk, but it's about ten times as bad when he's drunk and Kyle is on his mind at the same time.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" gargles replacement-Kyle, as blood faucets out of his nose and over his mouth. Stan hopes he broke that nose. Kyle deserves it, after everything he put Stan through. Replacement-Kyle tries to no avail to shove Stan off of him and protests, "Dude, you're fucking nuts, you crazy shit!"

Stan punches replacement-Kyle again. And again. He weeps, "You. Asshole. Get out of my head. _Get out of my head._"

It's then that Stan is picked up off of replacement-Kyle. He stumbles with the two security guards whose arms are securing him on either side. His world doubles and triples. He's bleeding, too. Replacement-Kyle got a couple of good punches in before Stan lost it.

He's crying.

And he's bleeding.

And he can't see straight.

And instead of tonight erasing Kyle from his mind, everything just reminds him of Kyle. Red haired guys. The color green. Song lyrics. Every little thing is a Kyle thing.

"Get outta here," says one of the security guys, as they toss him onto the sidewalk outside.

The other one seems a little more kind than his coworker. He suggests, "You might want to call a friend to come pick you up, buddy. You're wasted out of your mind." He gives Stan that irritating as fuck parental look of disapproval and a firm pat on the shoulder, which causes Stan to wobble a bit on his feet and the dimly lit street to double.

He stumbles around the building, toward his car. The security guy is right, he thinks. He's so fucked up right now. He thinks he's bled into his own eyes, or maybe he got replacement-Kyle's blood into his eyes, he can't tell. This is fucking mortifying.

"Hey man, you alright?" a stoner asks as he passes him on the way to his Ford. Stan turns his head and the guy goes, "Whoa. Bro, you look like you got hit by a truck."

Stan _feels_ like he's been hit by a truck. His head feels like lead, like it's way too heavy for his body. He finds his Ford, but he doesn't think he should get in yet. No, he trips over his shoes and falls to his hands and knees on the asphalt. He heaves up the contents of his stomach. Which, admittedly, are mostly alcohol. He didn't eat much today, when he thinks on it. He had a sandwich for lunch at work, and ate like a handful of Kyle's crappy-apology Doritos and a couple of breath mints before he left on the drive to Denver. The vomit is all watery and his mouth tastes like shit. He should be used to that taste by now. Vomiting is not an uncommon occurrence in his life.

He throws up again.

Fuck.

He needs to call somebody.

The only person that comes to mind is Kenny.

With more effort than it should have taken, Stan fishes his cellphone out of the back pocket of his jeans. His eyes are blurry from blood and tears and his intoxication as he scrolls through the contacts. He presses '_Kenny cell' _but Kenny's phone must be off, because it goes straight to voicemail: _'Hey fuckers, you've reached Kenny McCormick. Actually, you haven't, which is why you're getting this message. Leave me a message and I'll give your ass a call back.'_

Stan clicks the end button instead of leaving a message, he'll just try Kenny's home phone. He doesn't know why anybody has a home phone anymore, the concept seems a little antiquated to him.

Kenny's home telephone rings three, four, five times, before it clicks, and somebody picks up.

Stan instantly starts talking, "Duuude. Please. Gotta come get me. I'm like, in Denver, and I'm reeeally shitfaced. If I drive I'll like, kill something. Or something. Ughhh –" Stan throws up again. He feels like he should be even more embarrassed, but it's just Kenny that he's talking to, and the sound of Stan vomiting will just solidify his point about needing to hitch a ride back up to South Park.

"_Stan? Is that you?"_

Stan looks in horror at his phone.

That voice most definitely does not belong to Kenny McCormick.

**o.o.o.o**

**Hey all! A great big thank you and some internet gift baskets for my sweet-ass reviewers: Chasing Rabbits, Bubble3wrapguy, conversefreak3, WxTxR, Mallory, KirstenTheDestroyer, Red Shiloh, CanIsay, VannaUsagi13, Reverse Psychology, Miroir Twin, ObanesHarvest, and TheAwesome15. **

**You guys are fantastic, I actually need a lot of encouragement with this fic right now, and your support really helps. Which reminds me, thank you to all my fic-lurkers as well. I know you're out there. ;D**

**Also, fun side note: My grandparents live about 45 minutes away from South Park, and your house pet really will get eaten up in the mountains. My uncle's cat got eaten by a mountain lion. SO. Trufax and shit. **


	5. To Try and Go Back

**Chapter Track: Back to the Start – Lily Allen**

_"Duuude. Please. Gotta come get me. I'm like, in Denver, and I'm reeeally shitfaced. If I drive I'll like, kill something. Or something. Ughhh –" _There's the sound of throw up splashing against the ground.

Kyle grimaces at the receiver of Kenny's home phone and asks tentatively after the sound of vomiting ceases, "Stan? Is that you?"

There's a long pause, but finally, Stan replies quietly, and he sounds like he's trying to pretend to be sober, "_I needa talk t'Kenny."_

"He's not here, he's on a Taco Bell run for Wendy," Kyle says. And Kenny called from Bebe's place (where Wendy is currently staying) to say that his cell died and he's spending the night over there. Kyle is under the mildly horrified impression that Kenny and Wendy have decided to make fucking each other a regular thing, probably because Wendy's hormonal and Kenny is horny.

"_Shit," _expresses Stan.

Kyle can't help but feel worried. Stan sounds like he's in worse shape than Kyle's seen in ages. He says quickly, "I'll come get you. Where are you? I'll be there."

"_But I hate you," _says Stan.

Kyle would be lying if he said that didn't hurt, but he sucks up his pride and says, "Please dude. Just let me come get you. Where are you? You're freaking me out."

"'_M at Tracks," _Stan says, _"Denver. By my car. Can't drive. I'll wait here. Kay." _Stan sounds like a kid, a scared kid. Kyle hurries to get his jacket on and scrambles for the keys to Kenny's truck. Kenny walked to Wendy's – thank Christ. Kyle doesn't know what he would have done if he had gotten Stan's call without having any way to get to him.

And that's how he got here.

Stan is passed out against his Ford. His left eye and jaw are bruised, he's splattered in somebody's blood, the knees of his jeans are split open and the skin underneath is scraped up and raw. He's sitting next to a puddle of his own vomit. Kyle swallows the lump in his throat before crouching in front of his ex-super best friend. He nudges Stan's shoulder and calls softly, "Stan. Stan, I'm here." Jesus, what would have happened if Kyle couldn't have come to get him? Kyle's heart beats faster with the mere idea of the horrors that could have occurred. He feels like fucking Tweek, except he isn't paranoid for himself, he's paranoid for Stan.

Stan moans in protest.

"Stan, you gotta wake up," Kyle says, a little louder now.

"Don' wanna," Stan mumbles, without opening his eyes.

"Please, dude, you have to," Kyle says.

Stan's eyes flutter open. Kyle releases the breath that he didn't realize he had been holding. Fine. Stan is fine.

"Kyle?" Stan asks hoarsely.

"Yeah, it's me," Kyle says. He should have known how emotional this summer was going to be. He should have prepared for the drama. But Kyle isn't prepared to feel like he does right now. He feels sick to his stomach from the guilt. This is what he does to Stan. Kenny's right. He should stay away.

Kyle wraps an arm around Stan and heaves him up. He's heavy, almost deadweight from being so fucked up. Stan is bigger than Kyle, too. Not in height – Kyle has about a half-inch on Stan, but in build, Stan is more solid. It makes the short trip to Kenny's truck (which Kyle is fucking terrified of breaking, since it's old as shit and a beautiful machine, not to mention that Kenny has spent years making it look as good as it does) seem a lot longer, and the maneuver of getting the passenger's door open for Stan while simultaneously propping Stan up is a little more than challenging.

Somehow, it's managed, though by the time that Kyle has buckled Stan into the seat and gotten in on the driver's side, he's panting from the exertion. To say that he's neglected exercise in the past four years would be an understatement.

He hands Stan the half-full bottle of Arrowhead water that he found under his seat (he checked to make sure it was water and not alcohol first. Kyle didn't necessarily trust any items found in Kenny McCormick's vehicle), uncapping it so that Stan doesn't struggle with it. Stan struggles anyway, sort of missing his mouth and spilling water down the front of his black t-shirt. Kyle sighs and scoots over to help, positioning the bottle correctly at Stan's mouth.

The trip back to South Park is mostly silent. Stan falls asleep almost instantly, while Kyle tries to work out the logistics of coming back to pick up Stan's Ford. Tomorrow Kyle is booked with an obligatory family dinner that he's been putting off, mainly because he's frightened of what his mother will do to him after not seeing him for this long. At least he'll have Ike. He and Ike have exchanged e-mails and phone calls and Skyped each other all this time, but he's interested to see what his little brother looks like in the flesh, now that he's eighteen years old and graduated from high school himself. Kyle feels like a bit of a dick for not being able to attend Ike's graduation, but he had final exams at the same time. Luckily, he thinks his mom is more pissed than Ike is about it.

Stan and Kyle stop only twice on their journey back home – once for gas, and a second time when Kyle has to pull over on the shoulder of the 285 so that Stan could throw up again. They sit there for longer than necessary, maybe. It's just that when Kyle's helping Stan, it eases the guilt about what he thinks he might have done. He doesn't want to be the asshole. But he thinks he is. So, rubbing Stan's back while he vomits on the side of the highway, and giving him the fresh bottled water and offering a stick of the gum he bought at the Shell station is a small price to pay.

By the time that Kyle pulls Kenny's truck into the driveway of Stan's house, it's half past three in the morning. Stan is too drunk to open the door to his house, and too drunk to tell Kyle which key will unlock the door, so Kyle fumbles while the dogs inside bark.

"Shut uppp," Stan moans, slurring his words, when they clamor their way inside, and are smothered by dogs. It's dark, and Kyle can't see, so he switches on a light.

Whoa.

Stan's house is kind of a shithole. Kenny's place is neat as fuck in comparison. There are empty beer bottles and empty beer cans littering just about every surface. The television is playing some cop show. The dishes are piled up in the sink in the small kitchen. The trashcan is overflowing. The only place that looks well-cared for is the little corner where Stan has arranged doggy beds and blankets.

Kyle shakes his head out of the initial shock and guides Stan up the stairs, taking care to stand behind him so that he won't fall backwards and break his stupid drunk neck.

"Jesus Christ, Stanley," Kyle says, when they reach his bedroom. _This_ place is even worse than the floor below.

"What?" Stan says, "What did I do?" He whines it out like a child – a child used to be reprimanded. Kyle wonders if Kenny has given lectures already on the topic of Stan's disgusting surroundings.

Kyle wrinkles his nose and says, against his better judgment, "You live in a pigsty."

Stan retorts drunkenly, "No, _you_ live in a pigsty."

The conversation ends there. Stan clearly doesn't understand shit about what's going on around him. Kyle tosses dirty clothes off of Stan's bed and into the too-full laundry hamper conveniently hidden behind the door. Stan flops onto the bed and giggles when the mattress springs bounce. Kyle rolls his eyes. He wonders if Stan is too drunk to dress himself. Probably. But he doesn't want to be creepy and take off Stan's clothes without permission. And clearly, Stan is not sober enough to give Kyle permission to do anything.

Okay, but he can't let Stan sit in those nasty-ass clothes. His shirt is covered in vomit. And his knees are all scraped up. Surely, the idiot owns a first aid kit. If not for himself, Stan would own one for his dogs. That much has been made clear. Kyle settles on just stripping Stan down to his boxers. At least then, he wouldn't be wearing his rancid clothing.

Maybe Kyle should do a couple loads of laundry before he takes off.

Yeah, he should do that. Maybe clean up some of the cans and bottles, too. And take out the fucking trash.

Stan laughs when Kyle starts wrestling the gross clothing off of him. He says, "What're you doin'?" and grins in a Kenny-esque salacious way, before suggesting in a sing-song voice, "Kyle wants to have sex with me!"

Kyle rolls his eyes for what feels like the fiftieth time and says, "Not now, I don't. Quit being a dick, I just want to clean you up a bit. Then you can sleep."

"Sleep," Stan seems to agree with the concept, "Mm, sleep is nice. Why don't you sleep with me?" Stan attempts a wink, but ends up just blinking strangely.

"Ha. Ha," Kyle replies sarcastically, finally able to tear the t-shirt off of his ex-super best friend, "No. Even if I thought you were serious, I'm not going to fuck somebody when they're not sober enough to consent. No fucking way, dude."

"I'm sober," says Stan petulantly.

"On what fucking planet, dickface?" Kyle mutters. Stan doesn't appear to have heard. That's all well and good, because Kyle would rather not start an argument with Stan while he's so shitfaced (He has tried to before; they are highly unsuccessful arguments). He yanks Stan's jeans off with a single, determined tug, throwing them on the ground.

His search for some sort of first aid supplies results in Kyle coming up empty-handed. Stan doesn't even own a fucking box of Band-Aids, though he sure as hell owns a veritable plethora of pain medications. So, to substitute, Kyle gets a wad of toilet paper wet and cleans the blood off of Stan's knees and hands and face. He still looks like utter shit when Kyle's finished, but mildly better than before. Also by the time Kyle's done cleaning Stan up, he's fallen asleep.

Kyle sighs. He maneuvers the blanket out from under Stan's body and pulls it over him, tucking him in to his chin.

Kyle's all worked up now. His blood is pumping too fast for him to go to sleep. When he returns downstairs, dragging the laundry hamper from Stan's room, the dogs leap off of their various perches to come sniff at him. The only one that hasn't finished barking is the pug, who apparently believes himself to be terrifying. The jug of detergent that Stan has is almost completely full. Does he…ever do laundry? Gross. This is so fucking gross.

Kyle doesn't know when the pickup day for trash is, but he leaves four huge, black trash bags on the curb. Their contents seem to be mostly empty beer cans, Captain Crunch boxes, and junkmail.

He thinks he's being watched. Maybe it's just the eerie noise that Tweek's wind chimes make when the summer breeze hits them. Or maybe it's the fact that he now has three dogs following him around with tongues lolling and tails wagging like he's their new best friend. Kyle knows their names, now, though. He looked at the tags on their respective collars. Huge mastiff, Daisy. Dalmatian, Lucy. Pug, Thor. He'll try and remember that. Maybe remembering the names of Stan's dogs will make him look a little less like an asshole.

Kyle's original intent upon entering Stan's townhouse was to go home once he saw Stan safely to sleep, but he's so tired himself that he curls up on the couch downstairs, after he's turned off the television and let Stan's dogs out when they scratch at the bag door. There's a throw blanket at one end of the sofa. It smells kind of iffy, like Stan has spilled alcohol on it without cleaning it later.

Kyle's last sleepy thought is that he'll toss the blanket in the washer when he wakes up.

**o.o.o.o**

Kyle's phone vibrating against his thigh wakes him approximately five hours later, when it's almost ten in the morning. He answers the call tiredly, without bothering to check the caller ID – or even opening his eyes.

"Mmph – Hello?" His voice is all scratchy.

"_Where the fuck is my truck?_"

"I had to pick up Stan last night," Kyle explains, "your truck is at his house. I left you a note, doucheface, or are you blind?"

"_I'm not inside yet_," Kenny sighs, _"I just saw it was gone and freaked. She's my baby, don't fuck her up._"

"Does the same apply to Wendy's stomach, 'cause –"

"_Don't make me kill you, Kyle. I don't want to have to do that. You're my friend. But if you make any more baby jokes, I swear to fucking God I will mount your head on a pike and display it in my yard,_" threatens Kenny, "_Why'd you have to pick up Stan?_"

"Oh my God, dude, he was _fucked _up," Kyle says. He tries to move his legs, but there's something sitting on top of them. He blinks a couple times against the light streaming in from the front window – it's the dalmatian. She gives him a glassy-eyed look when she notices Kyle staring, and paws at his thigh. Kyle gently extracts himself out from under her.

Only to discover the pug is on his pelvis.

Kyle says to Kenny, "Hold on a sec, I'm covered in dogs." He sets the phone on Stan's coffee table (which is now litter-free, thank you very much), and pulls himself as gently as possible out from under Stan's pack.

"Okay, I'm back," he says, "Anyway, Stan went clubbing, I guess? He got totally plastered and got his ass kicked. Maybe the other guy looked worse, though, I dunno. But I had to go to Denver to get him. And don't worry, your truck is fine."

"_Forget about the truck, is Stan okay?_" Kenny asks, sounding more concerned now that it's been confirmed that his vehicle is in the condition he left it in.

"Um, I think so? He's got a black eye, and he was throwing up, but he seemed to be in good spirits before he fell asleep," Kyle shrugs, even though Kenny can't see him. Behind him, one of the dogs whines, and Lucy leaps off of the couch. Her paws make little skittering noises when she hits the linoleum floor of the kitchen, and she starts nosing something around.

Kyle peers over. Oh, shit. Of course. They're probably fucking starving. Fortunately, Kyle found where the dog food is kept when he went on his hunt for some Band-Aids last night (Wait, technically it was this morning. Fuck it, though, he doesn't care). He opens up the cabinet under the sink and scoops out food for the trio of canines. They swarm as soon as they see him with the kibble.

"_He was in good spirits because he was drunk, dude,"_ Kenny responds, "_Are you sure he didn't need to go to the hospital?_"

"Hospital?" Kyle repeats dumbly.

"_Uh, yeah, bro. Usually I take him to Hell's Pass if he's as bad as you said he was," _Kenny replies, "_Can you go check on him, just for me?_"

Kyle first reaction is total internal panic, but he says as calmly as he can force himself to sound, "Yeah, I'll go see," and he holds his hand over the receiver so Kenny won't hear him scrambling up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Kyle left the door open slightly last night. He sticks his head in the bedroom, and hears a soft snore.

He breathes a sigh of relief and says, "No, he's breathing. He's fine."

"_I hope he gets the worst fucking hangover of his life_," Kenny says, "_You have no idea how big the brick that I shat was when I saw my baby missing._" Kyle snorts.

"Even if it isn't the worst hangover of his life, when he wakes up, he will _feel_ that shit," says Kyle, "It was bad, dude."

"_Why are you still over there, anyway?_" asks Kenny, "_Hey, I found your note. 'Dear Kenny –' That's so sweet, Kyle, I'm dear to you? 'While you're banging your baby mama – '" _Kenny cuts off with a dramatic sigh, and laments, "_See, dude, now I have to kill you. So when I'm hacking your head off, just remember, you brought this upon yourself."_

"Ha ha, you're hilarious," Kyle says, "I ended up cleaning up some of his shit. It's disgusting in here. Do you know if he owns a vacuum?"

"_Not a functioning vacuum, why? Playing housewife for your high school sweetheart?"_

"Why am I friends with you?" Kyle wonders aloud. He wanders back downstairs and puts his cell on speakerphone so that he can switch out the laundry loads. He's not organized about his laundry. He doesn't separate it into colds or warms or whatever, but since Stan doesn't ever wash his clothes, he doesn't think he'll care. Though, it does remind Kyle of the time he was trying to replace Stan by being friends with Craig, and Craig _did _flip shit about the way that Kyle did laundry. He even _asked_ how Kyle did his laundry. When they were like, fucking fifteen years old. What a weird guy.

"_Probably because you're using me for the great sex,_" Kenny answers, "_and so you can laugh at my problems._"

"Oh yeah," Kyle says, chuckling, "Don't let Wendy hear you calling her a problem."

"_Seriously, fuck you. I am sharpening my pike as I speak,_" Kenny says, "_Which reminds me, I should probably get going. I'm covering Jason at the shop today. He got the flu or something._"

"In the summer?"

"_It's not his fault he's a pussy, Kyle, be nice,_" Kenny reprimands, "_For real, though. I'm out. See you when I get back?"_

"Yeah, see you, dude," Kyle goodbyes. He pushes the end button and sticks a dryer sheet in with the damp clothes. How does Stan have dryer sheets, but not Band-Aids? He doesn't even appear to do laundry.

Kyle's been hanging around for so long now that he doesn't think that it would be polite to just up and leave. Like, he should wait for Stan to get up so he can say goodbye. It's not like he doesn't have anything to occupy himself with – Stan's house is still gross as all hell. That reminds Kyle that he swore he'd put that nasty blanket on the couch into the laundry.

Maybe it's weird that he's hanging around his ex-super best friend's house doing household chores, but Kyle wants to prove that he's not the total douche that everybody's making him out to be. He can be nice. He does nice shit all the time. Back in New Hampshire, he volunteered at the local homeless shelter on Christmas. Not that Christmas matters to Kyle, but he still thinks that it's a nice thing to do for people (and he's always bored on Christmas, anyhow).

Kyle ends up running to the grocery store to get kitchen cleaner (there are stains on the kitchen counter that he does not even want to question), but he comes back with a truckload of stuff he finds Stan's house lacking in. A first aid kit, to begin with. Food other than chips and cereal. Milk that isn't expired. And he indulges and buys a couple of chew toys, because come on, Stan's dogs are actually really cute.

By noon, Stan still isn't up, and so Kyle fills a glass of water and arranges a couple of ibuprofen capsules on the bedside table next to Stan's head. He wants to make sure that Stan will be as not-pissed as possible before he sees that Kyle has gone all Snow White on his house. Except that if Kyle was Snow White, then Stan's pack of dogs would be helping him do the dishes. Which they aren't. They're chewing on the squeaky toys that he bought them.

When it's almost one, he hears Stan's footsteps on the stairs.

His first thought is a firm _Oh, shit. _Kyle had started to get hungry, and he found waffle iron in the back of one of the cabinets in the kitchen…and well. He was making waffles.

"Kyle?"

Stan sounds absolutely incredulous. Not that Kyle actually expected him to remember the night before.

"Uh, yeah?" Kyle gives Stan a sheepish smile.

"Are you," Stan waves an incoherent hand in a sweeping gesture over Kyle, "cooking? In my house?"

"The ever-observant Stan Marsh strikes again, everybody," Kyle says, "Sorry. I got hungry."

He turns back to look at Stan, but Stan's staring at the living room. He demands, "Did you clean my house?"

"It was disgusting," Kyle defends.

"Is the washer running?"

"Have you ever been in your own bedroom, Stan? I was horrified."

"What the – are those new toys? Did you buy those?"

"I can't help it, your dogs are cute," Kyle says. He flips the first waffle onto the plate (that he had cleaned, he might mention) he'd set beside the waffle iron.

Stan is silent for a long moment. Kyle hears the squeak of a chair being pushed back, and assumes Stan must have sat at the kitchen table. Which, by the way, is clear of the wreck of used dishes, carcasses of eaten Lean Cuisines, and alcohol paraphernalia.

"You know," Stan says lowly, "this doesn't mean I'm going to forgive you."

Kyle can't help but feel hurt, but he determinedly ignores the feeling and asks, "Would coffee make you feel better? I went next door and got actual decent shit from Tweek. He wants you to know that he's upset that you're using Folgers again. Here, have the first waffle." He sets the plate in front of Stan, quickly followed by a bottle of maple syrup.

Stan looks terrible. His black eye is probably the worst part, besides his bruised jaw and matted hair. But overall, he just looks exhausted and overwhelmed. Kyle doesn't now how it came to be like this, and that destroys him inside. He wishes he had been there all along, even if he hadn't helped, to be by Stan's side and know _why_ he got to this point.

"Kyle," Stan warns.

"What?"

"I'm serious. I still hate you," he says.

Stan hates him. Awesome. Kyle purses his lips and reminds himself that Stan is also probably enjoying a hellish hangover. So he responds in turn, "That's okay. You can hate me. I feel like shit, okay? Like, I dunno. I look back and – and I was just a dick."

"You're still a dick," Stan says, but his words are muffled by the fact that he's chewing a waffle.

"Okay. I'm still a dick," Kyle says slowly. He takes down another plate from where he put them away and flips the second waffle onto it.

"You did my dishes, too?" Stan says, surprised, "Dude. What the hell is going on here? I don't even know how you got in here. And why is Kenny's truck outside?"

Kyle says, "Kenny was busy with his baby mama last night. I had to come get you."

"That doesn't explain the disconnect between you taking me home and doing all…this," Kyle turns in time to see Stan's mouth half-open, and his hand waving at the still sort of messy surroundings. But they're better. Much better.

"You know how I am about gross shit," Kyle says, "I hate it. I couldn't let you sleep in your own filth. That would be unethical."

"Unethical," repeats Stan.

"Entirely," Kyle confirms.

For awhile, they sit like that, in an uncomfortable silence, while Kyle brews coffee and makes the last of the waffles. Kyle sits down after the last of the batter is used up. Stan serves himself seconds and Kyle pours them both coffee. It's awkward. _Very_ awkward. It almost feels like a morning-after thing, like Kyle's going to have to do the walk of shame to Kenny's truck. Except that he and Stan didn't –

"Did we, uh. Um, you know?" Stan asks.

"What? No!" Kyle exclaims, "You were drunk!"

"Ughh," Stan expresses, and he clutches at his head.

"Uh, sorry," Kyle mumbles.

" 'S fine," Stan murmurs, "Look, you didn't have to do all this."

"I know," Kyle says.

"I am really, really pissed at you," Stan replies.

"I know that, too," answers Kyle, though that knowledge hurts. He's never been good about feelings, really, other than feeling angry or betrayed. Boyfriends of the past have always told him, 'you need to be more affectionate' or 'I feel like you don't really _care._' But that never was it. Kyle always cares about things. He just doesn't discuss them. He typically keeps them locked safely away where he doesn't have to think about them, unless he's arguing with some dipshit over politics. But relationships aren't politics.

Kyle runs a hand over his tangled curls and says, "Dude. I. Um, this is awkward. But, I want to…like, go back to the start with us, or something. I miss being friends with you. And I'm not just talking out of my ass, here. I've thought a lot about what you said. You're right. I was the only one that didn't know how terrible I was. You don't have to forgive me yet. Or at all, I mean. I just wanna hang out with you again."

Stan stares at Kyle for awhile. He takes a sip of his coffee and a bite of his third waffle, and for a moment, Kyle isn't sure that Stan is going to respond to his speech at all. Finally, though, he drums his fingers on the table and says, "Alright. Whatever. Let's try. But I'm still mad at you."

**o.o.o.o**

**DID NOT expect to get this chapter finished so quickly, but life is full of surprises. **

**Thank you thank you thank you to the people that make me feel like my writing is worth somebody's while: ObanesHarvest, conversefreak3, Wendlekins, WxTxR, Sami :D, KirstenTheDestroyer, NightmareMyLove, Chasing Rabbits, TheAwesome15, and Reverse Psychology. Your thoughts mean a lot to me, seriously.**


	6. Kaleidoscopic Mind

**Chapter Track: Porcelain – Moby **

Stan doesn't get home until late that evening, but he feels strangely…good. It's freaking him out. After he and Kyle came to an awkward reconciliation that afternoon, Kyle asked if Stan wanted to come with him to a family dinner at his old place. Stan wanted to say no, but Kyle almost sounded like he was begging, in a _save me from my family_ sort of a way. So Stan went. Not that he would blame the Broflovskis for how they fussed over Kyle. The guy hadn't been around for four years. Hardly anybody knew what had happened in that space of time, except Kenny and Ike. Stan could admit to being curious.

Really curious.

Stan remained mostly quiet during dinner and let Kyle be mercilessly interrogated by Sheila and Gerald (no matter how many pleading looks he was given, letting Kyle be drilled by his parents was a satisfying method of revenge for the past years. And, like he said, he was, and is, curious). Apparently, Kyle has had three boyfriends since leaving South Park. None of them worked out, obviously, since Kyle just goes around kissing random guys that used to be his friend in their cars while they're trying to yell at him.

Still, dinner was a little much for Stan. He runs into Sheila and Gerald and Ike periodically, at the grocery store or Tweak Bros – and from time to time he's been under the impression that Ike is spying on him, though Stan has to wonder if that's just his own paranoia taking over when he's drunk. During Kyle's absence, it just seemed like Ike was keeping tabs on him. It sounds ridiculous when Stan consciously thinks it, but when he caught Ike's gaze from across the Broflovski's dinner table, he just _knew_. Like, that kid is completely nuts and a secret agent for the FBI or some shit.

"Your brother scares me," Stan mentions on the car ride back to his place (in Kenny's truck, since they had yet to collect his car from Denver. He was certain there would be a nice, fat parking ticket waiting for him on the windshield).

Kyle laughs quietly and says, "Me, too."

"Is he really dating Craig's sister? Isn't she a few years older?"

"He's always had a thing for older women," Kyle shrugs, "It used to be kind of creepy, but now it just makes sense. He's…weirdly mature. He doesn't think my jokes are funny."

"To be fair, I don't think your jokes are funny, either," Stan says plainly.

Kyle seems to be restraining himself, either from biting out a retort or flipping Stan off or whatever. Stan noticed it at first when he woke up next to a glass of water and some pain meds. He saw Kenny's truck outside, so he'd initially thought it weird. Kenny usually helped him barf a couple times, or took him to Hell's Pass. He didn't stick around and leave hangover helpers around the house. Then Kyle was making waffles. And confessing to being a dick. Which he continues to be. A dick, Stan means. But he's not sure that he likes this new Kyle, with self-restraint. It makes Kyle seem like even more of a douche, because then he's withholding feelings.

Stan does not like it all.

"Why aren't you pissed off? I just told you that your jokes aren't funny," Stan says.

"I'm working on not being a dick," Kyle says. His voice is soft, but his words aren't. There's an edge to it. He's trying really hard. Too hard, in fact. Kyle's never been like this before. He wonders what incited this change, and realizes that it probably was him. His yelling. He wants Kyle to realize he's a dick, sure, but he doesn't want him to change his ways…just, er, be aware of them. Or something. Shit, why is this so confusing?

"Well, stop it," Stan says petulantly.

Kyle's brows hitch together. He says, "Okay, now I'm confused."

"Join the club," says Stan.

They fall into silence. That's happening a lot. Stan thinks that maybe Kyle wants to talk about the past, but that he's afraid that Stan's going to blow a gasket again. Stan probably would, too. But he hates this weird silence that they revert to. He loves this guy. He always has and probably always will. He doesn't want it to just be silence between them. He wants this to be fixed and good again, even though he's the one that hurts the most about their lost super best friendship. Stan knows it won't happen right away like he wants. Like Kyle wants too.

"Do you ever wish we could build, like, a time machine or something?" asks Stan, finally breaking the silence, just as Kyle parks Kenny's truck outside of his townhouse.

Kyle blows all the air out of his lungs dramatically and responds, "Shit, dude. All the fucking time."

"What would you do?" asks Stan, "You know, if we could. Build a time machine."

Kyle considers this for a moment, futzing with one of his curls as he does. After a moment, he answers, "Tell myself to listen to other people, I guess. That I'm not always right. And that tween wave isn't going to last," Kyle pauses, and then queries, "What about you?"

Stan chuckles at the bit about tween wave, considering he was right about that from the start. He gives a sort of shrug and says, "I don't really know, actually. I just know I'd want it to be different. Like, all of it. Nothing would be the way it really turned out to be."

If that's not sad, Stan doesn't know what is.

But nothing turned out like he wanted.

Actually, he doesn't know what he wanted, and he doesn't know what he wants now.

He just know that he doesn't want it to be this.

And he didn't want the past to be what it actually was.

Recently, remembering high school has become inevitable. And what he remembers of high school isn't pretty. He remembers a lot of sitting by himself when he ate his lunch. A lot of watching other people laugh and joke with each other. A lot of people smiling.

There were some days that he hated himself so much that he couldn't work up the energy to go to school. He didn't want to look in the mirror and see his stupid face. He didn't want to have to get up, only to see that everybody else in the world were living their lives happily while Stan was of no consequence. On those days, he'd just lie in bed. Sometimes he'd sleep. Sometimes he'd stare at the ceiling. But inevitably, it led to a lot of reflection on how he was just a waste of space.

If he had this theoretical time machine, maybe he'd go back to those days and get out of his bed. Maybe he'd try and talk to his old friends.

But maybe not.

Stan thinks of all the things that he'd thought he would be when he was a kid, before his whole world came crashing down around his ears. At nine, he'd dreamed of what he would be like when he was in high school. Those were supposed to be everyone's golden days, apparently. And he thought…well, he'd thought that he would be dating Wendy for real, maybe. He would be on the football team. He'd pass his classes with flying colors. And he would be super best friends with Kyle Broflovski.

In a lot of ways, during high school, Wendy was his only friend. She put up with his shit in ways that Kenny didn't, and Kenny was the only other person that put up with him at all. He'll never forget the day that he came out to her. They were in his bed, side by side, not looking at each other.

"You said you had something to tell me?" Wendy had said, questioningly. That was Wendy. She would cut straight to the point. No time for Stan to get comfortable with the idea that he was pouring out a confession after keeping it stuck inside for fucking years. He'd been fifteen. When he first realized – at least consciously – that he liked boys, he'd been almost twelve.

Stan mumbled, "You have to promise you won't hate me, first." The idea that Wendy would hate him because of his homosexuality was ridiculous, of course. Wendy didn't hate anybody but Cartman, anyhow. And when it came to hating Cartman, Wendy hated him because _he_ hated people.

"I could never hate you, Stan," Wendy said softly, and from the way that she said it, he knew that she was telling him the truth.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, somehow close to tears because he was scared and nervous about telling somebody. At first, he spoke so quietly that Wendy didn't hear him. He said, "I'm gay."

"Huh?" She'd rolled over onto her stomach, propping herself up with her elbows, looking him right in the eyes. She was so pretty. He knew that, consciously, but it didn't actually do anything for him. A pretty girl was next to him in his bed. It was almost the same to Stan as saying, my bedroom walls are blue.

Stan cleared his throat, "I like guys, Wendy."

She didn't look surprised, though she did frown. She had said tentatively, "I…kind of thought so. You know I still love you just the same, right? I mean, I'm kind of disappointed. Not that you're gay! It's just that I'll miss having you as a boyfriend. You're an amazing person. I wish that you'd see that."

Stan personally didn't see anything that was amazing about him. In fact, he kind of sucked. Like a lot. But that wasn't what came to mind first at Wendy's response. It was that she was breaking it off with him. He protested, "I don't want to break up."

"You don't like girls," Wendy said back.

He explained, "But if we break up, people will ask why. Please don't. Please just stay with me for awhile. I don't want people to know yet."

Wendy gave him an assessing gaze. He never liked it when she did that, because he knew that she was thinking, and he knew that he'd never be able to read those thoughts. It wasn't like with Kyle. He always knew what was on Kyle's mind. Well, at that point, knowing what was on Kyle's mind had been a thing of the past. It still is, maybe. Stan isn't sure.

She eventually said, "Okay. But just for a little while."

He'd hugged her, then. It was better than any hug he'd ever given her before, because he'd known it wasn't dishonest and he wasn't hiding anything from her anymore. And she hugged back. She was supporting him just the same.

That was one day in which Stan didn't feel entirely alone.

But he went back to feeling alone pretty soon.

Wendy broke it off "officially" that winter, because she'd wanted to go to the winter formal with Token.

Stan understood, of course. It was just that understanding didn't stop him from feeling lonely.

He went on a lot of long walks. Stan would stick his headphones in and trek out, usually when he was certain that there would be nobody else outside – like when it was snowing heavily, or dark out, or ideally, both. He didn't care when the snow soaked through his canvas tennis shoes and that it was fucking freezing, because at least then he'd been feeling something other than this horrible, cloying loneliness.

"Stan?"

Stan's head shoots up too fast, and he hits it against the back of the passenger's seat. Beside him, Kyle looks worried. He says, "Dude, are you okay? You really drifted off, there."

Stan shakes his head, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just really out of it. I should probably sleep or something."

"Hey, um, dude?" Kyle says.

Stan lifts a brow, "Yeah?"

Kyle wants desperately to say something. Stan can tell. His emotion reads clear as fucking day on his face, Kyle has never been able to control that. Kyle starts, sort of stammering, "I – uh, um. Well. Nevermind. Have a good night."

The thing Stan doesn't know, however, is exactly _what_ Kyle is holding back. But he doesn't question it. Instead, he replies, "Yeah, you too. We should exchange numbers or something. So you can like, text when you want to hang out or whatever." Why are those words so painful to say? Stan doesn't look at Kyle when he speaks them. He's kind of worried that Kyle's going to laugh in his face and tell him that it'll be a cold day in hell before they can exchange cellphone numbers.

But Kyle doesn't say anything like that at all. No, he says, sounding surprised, but cheerful, "Uh, sure, man. My number hasn't actually changed since I was like, eleven. Do you still have that?"

Stan blushes. No, he doesn't. In a fit of rage when he was about thirteen, he'd attempted to delete Kyle completely out of his life. Naturally, it didn't work. He would just be reminded of Kyle in other ways. He says, "Sorry…no."

"Is yours the same? I can just text you," Kyle says. Stan thinks his feelings might be hurt, but again, Kyle won't say anything about it. Stan's just impressed that Kyle kept his phone number all this time. Okay, maybe impressed isn't the right word. 'In awe' seems slightly more accurate, like maybe it's a little bit of proof that Kyle _did_ give a shit all this time. Kyle's always been a bit stupid when it comes to people. But then, Stan hardly has room to speak on that front.

"Yeah," Stan says, "Yeah, it's the same."

"Cool, I'll text you, then," Kyle offers a hesitant smile.

Stan sort of tries to smile back, but he doesn't like how his smile looks and it comes out to be more of a grimace. He responds, "Cool."

"Uh, awesome. See you?"

"Yeah, see you."

Stan slips out of Kenny's truck. As he's opening the front door to his townhouse, his pocket vibrates and dings.

_From: 3035556109: Nice ass._

Stan laughs, and glances over his shoulder, but Kyle's already a ways down the street. He's not sure if this text is flirting or friendly banter. Maybe it's both. So he texts back a bit of honest truth:

_To: 3035556109: Yours is nicer._

**o.o.o.o**

On Monday, Kenny helps Stan get his car from down in Denver. Apparently, Kyle wanted to come. Something about being together for old times' sake, but couldn't, because he'd made a promise to his younger brother that they'd hang out that day. And one doesn't break promises made to Ike Broflovski.

Conversation on the ride down is sparse. Stan doesn't want to discuss the goings-on with Kyle, even though Kenny is eager to know what's happening from the other side.

But Stan and Kenny haven't really hung out in awhile, at least on their own. And Stan is actually kind of curious about the whole…_baby_ thing. So he asks, "So, uh, what's going on with –"

"Wendy?" Kenny finishes, and he makes a knowing face. Stan supposes that this is what everybody has been asking him about, and he feels a little bad for going over it again, but he wants to _know_, damn it. Kenny goes on, "Honestly? I have no _fucking_ idea what is going on. We're sort of fucking, right? But she still is all, 'No, Kenny, this is my thing to worry about,' or whatever," Kenny makes his voice higher to mimic Wendy speaking, "And it's like, okay, she is the one doing all the work here. And I'm trying to acknowledge that. But she's not having it, dude."

"That's hardly surprising," Stan says, though he can't help but feel a little bad for the guy. Wendy has always been extremely independent. It's just in her nature. She does what she wants and she gives no shits what anyone else thinks. Stan always thought that that was kind of awesome. But, he can't help but get the feeling that she's _maybe, just maybe, _judging Kenny based on his past. Or his tattoos. Or the fact that he didn't go to college and he works at a garage. Wendy probably doesn't even know that she's doing it, to be honest. She probably thinks that she's being reasonable in her judgments, and with any other guy, maybe she would be. But Kenny's…Kenny. And it's fucking evident to anybody that's paying attention (and seriously, all of South Park is paying attention to this mess) that Kenny is trying. Like, really hard. Harder than Stan has ever seen him try.

"I know," Kenny says, "It's just so goddamned frustrating. Holy shit. It's like, I hate children. I always have. And then this happens, and I'm like, wait, no, I kind of care about this. I kind of care about it a lot. And it's always been my philosophy to leave people alone when they want me to – but this is different, dude."

"I don't know what to tell you, man," Stan replies truthfully, "She's stubborn as fuck."

"I know, I know," Kenny says back, "and I've always appreciated that in a lady. But it's like she thinks I'm some lazy-ass kid, not a fucking adult with a job. I have a house, Stan. She may have a degree, but she doesn't have a house. Or a job. _I'm _paying for her doctor's appointments. I think she's too embarrassed to ask her parents, 'cause it's like she's pregnant with the bastard child of poor-ass, no-good, druggie Kenny McCormick, which apparently, is a step away from carrying the spawn of Satan in her womb."

"Satan's not a bad guy, though," Stan points out.

"Yeah, but the Testaburgers don't know that," Kenny answers, "And anyway, I haven't done anything since I was like, seventeen. That's five years ago. Okay, wait, I have smoked weed, but that shit isn't even bad for you. It's like, what do I even need to do to prove that I can handle this?"

"Maybe you should read the damn baby books," Stan laughs.

"Wait, what? How do you know about that?" Kenny demands.

Now Stan is confused. He says, "Haven't you ever seen Knocked Up?"

Kenny frowns and says, "No way, dude. It seemed like it would be a sentimental baby movie, and Christ, I hate that kind of thing."

"What? No, it's hilarious. I'll loan you my copy," Stan offers, "Seriously, you'll probably appreciate it now more than ever. And did you say you actually _have_ baby books?"

Kenny's quiet for a moment, and then he says conspiratorially, like it's some huge-ass secret, "She bought a few and gave them to me when she broke the news. They're kind of under my bathroom sink."

"That is hilarious," Stan guffaws.

"Not if she finds out, it's not," Kenny says in turn.

They arrive in Denver sometime later, moving on from the topic of Kenny's bastard child to the recent influx of superhero movies, to how crappy the roads in Colorado are, and so on. Stan feels like there's this danger in their conversation of the topic swinging to Kyle. And he doesn't really want to discuss Kyle. Stan actually gets the weird feeling that Kenny already sort of knows what's running through his head, which bothers him. He hates how Kenny seems to know everything about everyone (except Wendy, apparently, but it's amusing as hell to watch how frustrated he is with the situation).

As Stan predicted, when they reach his car, there's a parking ticket tucked neatly underneath his windshield wipers. He sighs, when he sees it, and Kenny sort of laughs in a way that says _this is what you get for trying to go clubbing without me, dumbass. _

"Hey," Kenny says, as though a lightbulb has gone on in his head, "Do you think I'd look more responsible if I bought a crib or something? I'd have to set it up in the guest room, but I guess I can convert it once Kyle goes back to New Hampshire."

When Kyle goes back to New Hampshire.

Stan does not like that. He knows that's how it has to be, but it still bothers him. It gives him this overwhelming feeling of sitting next to a ticking time bomb. It makes him feel like he has no time left and that he needs to do everything he can to hold onto Kyle now that they're sort of friends again.

Stan shrugs and says, "Maybe. Is she staying in South Park, though? Like, what if she's moving? Then you'd just have this random-ass nursery in your house for no reason."

Kenny looks almost crestfallen. He swears, "Shit. I didn't think of that. How have I not thought about that until now? Fuck, Stan. Then my _spawn_ will be out in the world and I won't get to be around. Holy Christ, why do I sound so stupid when I talk like that? This is fucking confusing."

Stan didn't mean to elicit such a reaction. He backpedals and says, "Whoa, dude. Calm your shit. Maybe she'll decide to stay if you do something thoughtful like that. A crib is thoughtful. I think."

"You're helpful," Kenny remarks sarcastically, "But maybe you're right," he brightens, after that, and exclaims, "Let's go crib shopping! We're already down in Denver, I can get some stuff, and I'll look all responsible and shit. Right?"

Stan snorts at Kenny's enthusiasm for it all, but is indeed dragged to the downtown area in search of an appropriate store.

Stan doesn't actually remember the last time he's shopped for anything other than groceries (which, according to Kyle, he is bad at). He's always disliked shopping, and the inordinate amount of clothing he owns is there due solely to everyone he knows and their mothers sending him clothes as a gift. He has been told that he is "hard to shop for," which means that everybody reverts to some go-to clever slogan t-shirts, or cologne.

This is why, while Kenny runs rampant in Pottery Barn Kids, Stan huddles in a corner and ends up texting Kyle.

_To: Kyle: This is what happens when you aren't here_

_From: Kyle: What?_

_To: Kyle: Kenny is furniture shopping_

_From: Kyle: For what?_

_To: Kyle: A crib_

_From: Kyle: Oh Jesus_

Stan laughs at that. He reads the text in Kyle's exasperated voice. Just as he's about to respond, his phone dings with a second text.

_From: Kyle: He probably thinks that this crib is going to be the key to winning over Wendy, doesn't he?_

Stan makes a face. Are they all that transparent to each other? Shit.

_To: Kyle: How did you know_

_From: Kyle: Dude he doesn't talk about anything but Wendy. He pretends that he talks about other shit, but it's seriously just Wendy. And she's like over here all the time. Awkward as fuck._

_To: Kyle: You can always come over if it gets too weird over there_

_From: Kyle: You're going to regret telling me that. I may as well just move in. _

_To: Kyle: I wouldn't mind_

Stan hesitates on sending the last one. He doesn't want to overstep any boundaries that they might have. But, he ends up clicking send before he can think the better of it. Kenny's calling his name, anyway.

Stan finds him at a bedding display.

"Do you think green is gender neutral?" he asks.

"Sure, why?" says Stan.

"Wendy was just saying the other day about how she doesn't want to raise the kid around 'perceived gender norms,'" Kenny does air quotes as he speaks, "She talked a lot about it. I dunno, dude, she lost me by the end, but I from what I got, pink and blue are strictly off limits."

"Maybe you're not having a boy _or_ a girl," says Stan.

"Yeah, maybe it's a velociraptor," remarks Kenny, "Do you think velociraptors like green?"

They both laugh at that. It's kind of nice to hang around Kenny again, despite the fact that they're standing around in Pottery Barn Kids with a bunch of thirty-somethings looking at them like they don't belong in there. Granted, it is kind of a weird sight. Kenny is, anyway. It's not every day that you see a tattooed guy with a septum piercing and giant combat boots browsing baby furnishings. It's funny enough that Stan snaps a picture when Kenny's holding a plastic-covered package of green crib bedding and sends it to Kyle with the caption _'Deep in thought_.'

Kyle sends back, _Holy shit you weren't kidding_.

The whole venture is fortunately over with soon. Stan thinks it's because he complained enough to get Kenny out of there. Kenny actually enjoys shopping, and whether it's borne from the fact that he grew up without having much, or that he just thoroughly enjoys cool shit, Stan can't tell. Kenny just likes shopping in all forms. It doesn't help that Kenny's favorite parts of it are Stan's least favorite. It's just that Kenny is especially fond of wandering through stores and picking up almost every little item.

If Stan is forced to shop, he tends to go straight in, purchase what he came for, and get out.

Stan almost regrets bringing up the whole baby thing by the end. He's thankful when he can drive his Ford back up to South Park alone. It's a bit of a shitty car, but it goes faster than Kenny's because his truck is _old as shit_ and can't reach higher speeds (Kenny says he's working on getting a car to suit his lead foot, as well, but that purchase seems to be far off into the future now that he has a bastard child he's actually trying to be responsible for).

Stan tells Kenny to stop at his place so that he can give him the Knocked Up DVD. He sort of wishes he could be around to see Kenny's reaction to the movie. Somebody seriously mislead that guy about the kind of film it is. His guess is either Kenny himself, or possibly Craig.

Stan feels odd once he's home. It's not typical of him to have two legitimately good days in a row. Hell, it's weird if he has _one_ good day, like ever. He doesn't remember the last good day that he's had. He thinks it must have been years ago, and maybe even not remarkably great, as he doesn't recall it.

He doesn't even feel like getting a drink, sort of like getting drunk would be too much work on such an excellent afternoon. Instead, he plays with his dogs in his small square of back yard and starts a load of laundry.

In the middle of wrestling in the grass, Daisy (who always takes Stan down, because she's enormous and a lot stronger than he is) perks up and barks. She bounds back into the house, and Stan assumes that the doorbell must have rung. Daisy has the best goddamn ears of them all.

Kyle is on his doorstep.

"Hey," he says, almost breathlessly. He's sweating, and his face is flushed pink. Stan guesses he must have walked over, and it's right at that time of day when it's hot as hell outside.

"Uh, hey," Stan says back, though he is confused as to why Kyle is on his doorstep in the first place.

"You said you wouldn't mind if I came over when it got awkward at Kenny's?" Kyle says hopefully, though he doesn't sound certain, "Because, uh, Wendy came over right when Kenny was putting the crib together…and it's not going well."

"Shit," Stan expresses. He feels bad for everybody in the situation, really. Particularly Kenny. So, he opens the front door wide, wiping a little at the grass on his t-shirt, and says, "Come in, then. I was just messing with my dogs. Uh. As you might be able to tell. What do you wanna do?"

Thor comes waddling up as Kyle steps into the townhouse, barking ferociously (as ferociously as a pug can, anyway). Kyle says, "Don't remember me, do you?" before bending down and scratching the dog's ears.

"Thor doesn't remember anybody, trust me. He's cute, but stupid. Really, really stupid," explains Stan. He doesn't know why, but he really likes that Kyle pays attention to his dogs. His dogs have been his favorite companions for years. He sort of feels like getting along with his pack is necessary in order to get along with him. Like, if his dogs were opposed to Kyle, maybe he wouldn't feel as comfortable as he does having him around. Sure, it's still a little weird between them. There's just that trickle of tension that won't go away. Maybe it never will. But it's not huge, and the dogs like having Kyle around. That means that Stan likes having Kyle around, too.

"We could watch a movie or play Xbox or something. I don't really care," shrugs Kyle, "I just can't stand them arguing anymore. They're both stubborn as hell. And Kenny usually isn't that way, you know? Didn't he just used to go with whatever?"

Stan switches on his television and Xbox and says, "Yeah, things change, though. I think he just got sick of dealing with other people's bullshit and decided he would let them know when he wasn't going to take their crap. What do you wanna play? I've got a bunch of shit. Feel free to browse."

Kyle only takes a couple seconds before he says, "Dude, let's play Ace Combat. I've wanted to try it out for, like, ever."

Stan slips the disc into the Xbox, and they flop back onto his couch together, controllers in hand. Stan props his feet up on his coffee table. It's a lot easier to enjoy this room since Kyle purged it of all the garbage. He even washed the throw blanket that Stan keeps on the sofa for when he's too drunk to get upstairs to his bedroom. It's…nice. Stan still feels a little cautious about this whole rekindling of the friendship thing, but he won't deny that Kyle's cleanup thing was thoughtful. It was one of the better hangovers that he's had because of it. His environment had just gone to hell, and Stan couldn't really say when. He lived in a dump, but at least now, it just looks like a regular bachelor pad and not an episode of Hoarders.

The weirdness dissolves as they fuck around in Co-op mode. It's almost exactly as Stan remembers their friendship being. Just them, laughing and playing video games and joking around about the misfortunes of others (see: Kenny).

"Oh shit!" Kyle exclaims at the game. Stan thinks he might just be button mashing now. He's twisting around with his arms sort of flailing, his tongue stuck out between his teeth in concentration. Kyle side eyes Stan for a second and says, "Dude, what are you doing? Get your head in the game, asshole."

Kyle moves his body like he's moving in the game. Stan had forgotten that he did that when he played. It's kind of funny that the habit has stuck around all these years.

And it's what causes Kyle to end up in Stan's lap, as he dives off to the side.

They stare at each other for a long second, and Kyle doesn't immediately move. Stan's chest feels all heavy and strange. _I love this guy_, Stan thinks, and that makes his chest hurt even more. It sort of feels like he's a scrap of paper that somebody just crunched into a ball and tossed into a trashcan. His brain isn't working very well, or at all, even.

So he does the first thing that naturally comes to mind – Stan drops his Xbox controller onto the carpet, places his hands underneath Kyle's arms, and heaves him up into a kiss.

And god, does it feel good when their lips connect. It feels like it felt _that one time_, too. So _right_. Like the universe wants him to do it. This isn't like their kiss in Stan's car, either. Neither of them are pissed off at each other. They were just being friends and Xbox-ing, and it seems only natural that they should end up like this.

Kyle's lips are kind of chapped. Stan used to make fun of him for it. Kyle would always suck on his bottom lip when he was stressed out or deep in thought, and he never carried around chapstick, like Stan does. He must never have broken that habit, either. His lips are warm too. And he tastes nice. He doesn't actually taste like one particular thing at all. He just tastes _nice._ Kyle's mouth opens, just barely, and Stan takes the opportunity to push his tongue inside it.

After a second, Kyle presses his tongue against Stan's, too, twisting and tasting all very experimentally. Maybe they both feel like they could fuck this up if they make one wrong move. That's what Stan feels like, at least. It all seems so hesitant, tentative, like it's a thing that's almost certainly going to break if you handle it incorrectly.

Stan shifts flat onto his back, and Kyle readjusts his legs so that they sit on either side of Stan's. One of Kyle's hands is on Stan's waist, right at the hem of his t-shirt. This is getting dangerously heated, dangerously fast, Stan thinks.

And Kyle must have been thinking exactly that, because he's the one that breaks off the kiss.

They sit like that, just trying to catch their breath for awhile. Stan's actually kind of afraid that Kyle is going to run the fuck out of his house and all the way back to New Hampshire. He finds himself tightening the grip of his arms, where they're wrapped around the small of Kyle's back.

"We're on top of each other," Kyle states.

That's not what he was expecting. Stan laughs hoarsely and says, "So it would appear."

"…You don't mind?" Kyle asks. A worry line forms on his brow, and Stan moves one of his hands to brush a thumb across it, coaxing it out of sight.

He says gently, "I don't mind. I'm enjoying the hell out of myself." He's also terrified, still, that any minute, Kyle is going to up and leave. He doesn't know why. It feels kind of irrational, but the feeling doesn't go away, no matter how illogical.

"Oh," Kyle says, "Um, well, if you don't mind then, can I kiss you again?"

Stan's lips quirk up on one side, "By all means."

Kyle smiles back, leans down, and their lips fuse.

**o.o.o.o**

**Wow. Hello, another chapter I didn't expect to finish so quickly. I'm having too much fun writing this. :I**

**I love and cherish every single one of these people, my superb reviewers: NightmareMyLove, Wendlekins, effingbirds, WizerdBeards, conversefreak3, ObanesHarvest, KirstenTheDestroyer, Hispanic Tenshi, Flika, Porn Merecenary, VannaUsagi13, Miroir Twin, Mallory, glow vomit, Sunshine-aki, sadpeople56, and TheAwesome15. **

**Questions/Comments/Suggestions? I don't bite.**


	7. Perhaps that is Strange

**Chapter Track: Calendar – Bishop Allen**

Kyle keeps wanting to touch his lips, but he's afraid that if he does, the feeling in them will go away.

He takes his time walking back to Kenny's place. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts and replays everything in his head. It's surreal to him, the idea that he really did just kiss Stan. He kissed Stan a fucking lot, too, but they both agreed that they didn't want to take things too far and get ahead of themselves.

It's almost as surreal as it was all those years ago after _that one time_, but then, Kyle was young and so freaked out by what had just happened that he didn't know what to do. It's similar – this situation. Except, he's only a little freaked out, just barely, and he's decided that whatever happens now, he'll take. Whatever's going on between him and Stan is just going to happen how it is. That's hard for him to admit to, to be honest. He genuinely needs to be in control most of the time and it frightens him when something is out of his hands. This _should_ frighten him, by that logic, but it fortunately does not. He thinks that he's okay with this being out of his control because it's with Stan. Despite the years of being distant, Stan is still Stan. They've changed, of course. They've grown. But at the core, they're the same Kyle Broflovski and Stan Marsh. That knowledge is somehow comforting.

Kyle kicks at a rock with the toe of his slip-on sneaker and watches it bounce down the sidewalk.

He stops for a second, just to appreciate everything. The Rockies are gorgeous this time of year – not that the mountains aren't always impressive. And there truly is no comparison to a Coloradan sunset. Kyle thinks of how he took this all for granted while he was here.

South Park. His town. It always has been. You couldn't take the South Park out of him if you tried.

It's a weird sentiment, a part of a song – _Nothing is different, but everything's changed._

They're all older now, they're not children, not in high school. They all said that they'd be out living their lives away from here by now. But everybody's mostly here, in South Park.

And in many ways, everything is _incredibly_ fucked up. Cartman and Butters are _married_, for fuck's sake. Wendy's pregnant and Kenny's the father, and Kenny's actually demanding responsibility, which she refuses to grant him. And Stan lives alone in a shithole with a pack of dogs.

Kyle refuses to be negative, though. Cartman and Butters are happy the way they are. Stan says they even got a cat. Wendy and Kenny are the same people, just…grown up. And Kyle's sure they'll work it out one way or another, no matter how obstinate they both are being. And if he has anything to say about it, Stan won't be alone anymore. They kissed. Kyle's determined to make that happen again. If not for himself and the wonderful shuddering feeling that goes through him when he thinks about kissing Stan, then Kyle will make it happen again _for Stan_, because Stan deserves to be less lonely.

Kyle listens at Kenny's front door for a second, for the sounds of a) arguing or b) sex, but thankfully, hears nothing, and ventures inside.

Instead of finding Kenny drinking cheap beer and quilting while watching Up like he expected, he finds Kenny staring, horrified, at the television screen.

"You okay, dude?" Kyle asks cautiously.

"This movie is a documentary about my life," Kenny says.

"Huh?"

"This movie. Stan loaned it to me. It is fucking _about me_, you don't understand," Kenny responds.

Kyle slides his shoes off of his feet and leaves them by the door, padding across the carpet to see what the fuck Kenny's talking about.

"Knocked Up?" Kyle tries not to laugh, he really does, but he can't help the bark of laughter that manages to escape, "Bwahaha – oh shit, it _is_ about your life. Except you're better looking than Seth Rogen."

"It's not funny!" exclaims Kenny, "Well, it kind of is. The movie, I mean, not the correlation to my life. That's actually fucking scary, thank you very much. Like, oh my God, when she tells him that she's pregnant. Holy shit. _That conversation happened to me. _Almost _word for fucking word, _Kyle."

"Dude…you should probably turn that off," Kyle says, looking over his friend with a worried tilt to his lips. He takes the remote out of Kenny's grip and switches off the television, "Maybe we should go out, get your mind off of her or something."

Kenny shakes his head, putting his face in his hands, "I'd actually rather just stay home."

"Whoa, can you repeat that? Did you just say you'd rather stay in tonight than go out?" Kyle feels his mouth unhinge slightly from the surprise, "Who are you and what have you done with Kenny McCormick?" This is affecting Kenny more than he'd originally thought. Sure, he knew that Kenny was stressed beyond belief and trying like he'd never tried before to make himself look good, but Kyle didn't realize that this whole thing with Wendy had gotten to this point. Was his fight with Wendy worse than usual? Typically, they just bicker back and forth, but maybe it's worse when Kyle's not around. Like, maybe they try to censor themselves in the company of other people.

"That's not helping, assface," Kenny mutters into his hands, "I'm just, I dunno. Trying. Trying to look like a responsible human being. We could get drunk here, though. Then nobody has to know and I can still be fucked up."

"Your liquor supply is kind of pathetic, though," Kyle says, "You want me to go out and grab some stuff?" He's not worried about Kenny's alcohol consumption like he is about Stan's. Kenny's always been good about knowing his limit. Kyle doesn't think that he's ever actually seen Kenny throw up.

Weird.

Kenny looks up over his hands and says on a sigh of relief, "Would you? If I wasn't trying to behave myself, I would give you the best sex of your life for that."

Kyle rolls his eyes, "Sick, dude. You're my friend. That would be fucking awkward as shit."

"But it would be great sex," Kenny says back, "Now out. Get whiskey, I'm in a whiskey mood."

"Aye, captain," Kyle says sarcastically.

**o.o.o.o**

The bell on the door of the liquor store rings shrilly when Kyle pushes it open. He has this weird moment as in he's in there, in which he's afraid that the first person he'll see in here is Stan, with armfuls of bottles.

It doesn't happen, though. The first person that Kyle actually sees is Craig. Craig isn't paying attention to him. He's focused on the Red Racer comic book in his hands. He blows a bubblegum bubble and pops it with his teeth, before stating, "Quit staring, asshole."

Kyle rolls his eyes. Some things will never change. Craig Tucker will always be a dick, no matter how friendly people are to him.

He doesn't linger. Kyle has never really liked the atmosphere of liquor stores. This one in particular, as it is technically in the middle of nowhere, has an air of hopelessness. It's taunting, really. Like the shelves lined with creatively shaped bottles of cheap alcohol are saying, _Ha, loser. You're stuck here, with us. _Kyle bustles straight to the refrigerated section and selects a six pack of some of his favorite "snobby college kid beer" as Kenny calls it, and a moderately priced bottle of whiskey.

"This isn't for Marsh, is it," Craig asks tonelessly as he scans the merchandise, "You really shouldn't buy him this shit. He needs to lay off the booze, like big time."

"Huh? No," Kyle's confused. He's baffled by two things. The first is that Craig is expressing concern for anybody, let alone Stan, the second is that he's never heard Craig speak so many words together.

It actually gives Kyle this eerie sense of disconnect from his hometown, on top of the desolation of this particular liquor store. Has he really been so out of touch that Craig fucking Tucker has started to step in? That's too weird, and Kyle doesn't like it. No, he does not like that at all.

"Kay," Craig says, packaging Kyle's purchases in a paper bag. As Kyle picks it up and heads for the door, Craig adds, "Hey, say hi to your brother for me."

Kyle knows that Ike's dating Craig's sister, but he didn't expect _friendliness_, of all the fucking things. He questions, "You actually like my brother?"

"He's a lot less of a sunshine-y prick than you, so yeah," Craig states. He snaps his gum and lifts his Red Racer comic to cover his face, a silent indicator that he is done speaking to Kyle. Kyle rolls his eyes. Fucking Craig.

But, speak of the devil, his phones buzzes in the pocket of his shorts as he's loading the paper bag into Kenny's truck.

_From: Ike: Please let me come over._

_To: Ike: Why?_

_From: Ike: They are giving me another lecture on 'staying safe' in college. Shoot me, or let me come over._

_To: Ike: Don't tell me that it's the talk with the condoms_

_From: Ike: Fuck yeah, that's the one. At least yours didn't have a whole spiel about pregnancy and not ending up like 'that Kenny' _

Kyle laughs and starts the truck. He figures he'll just pick Ike up on the way back to Kenny's. This town is so small that it's only a handful of minutes to drive to any corner of it. The only reason anybody drives is that they're lazy. Which he is, at the moment, anyway. He'll have to remind Ike that the general topic of pregnancy and/or babies is to be strictly avoided around Kenny. Especially since they're attempting to drown Kenny's baby woes with moderately priced whiskey and probably a joint or two (At least Kyle guesses – Kenny is pretty predictable when it comes to his weed. It resides in the back of his sock drawer).

_To: Ike: I'm outside. _

Ike emerges from their house. Or maybe it isn't really Kyle's anymore. His parents converted his old bedroom into a modish office space. It actually looks kind of nice, it just makes him feel sort of displaced. He has an apartment back in New Hampshire, he reminds himself, but he's actually kind of dreading going back. He realizes now how much he missed it here. He even missed all the weird shit, and that's saying something. He often dreamed of a quieter life, and it turns out, a quieter life is kind of boring. Being back in South Park is a breath of fresh air.

Ike is taller than him. It's actually kind of annoying, though Kyle can't say why. It's not like he's a short guy himself.

"We having a party?" Ike asks as he opens the door to the passenger side. He moves the paper bag and buckles himself in, holding the liquor in his lap.

"Mom will kill both of us if you come home drunk," Kyle says pointedly.

Ike says, "Do I have to go home?" He gives Kyle a cocky brow, and Kyle punches his shoulder jokingly.

"I guess not," Kyle shrugs, "But you're crashing on the couch if you stay." He hasn't quite gotten to spend quality time with his brother since being back in town, so this is nice. It's strange to see Ike so grown up, though. It's another one of those moments in which Kyle's like, sure, he's seen Ike on Skype and Facebook, but in person, it's different. He seems so much older, so unlike the fourteen-year-old brother that he left behind. Kyle actually feels kind of ugly in comparison to his brother, and it's uncomfortable as shit to think about it. They're both tall and thin, but Ike's less gawky, and his shoulders are broader. Plus his hair is straight. Kyle is still working on coming to terms with his nest of curly hair. He keeps it clipped pretty short to prevent an afro state of emergency, but it still curls in little fucking ringlets.

He'll probably never like his hair, he decides.

_Stan told me that he liked it._

He had told Kyle he _loved_ his hair, in fact, and he ran his hands through it – sometime between the making out on Stan's couch being perfectly innocent to the time that it became much less innocent, and Kyle ended up with his hand halfway down Stan's pants… before they stopped themselves. Kyle had been so damned concentrated on making sure that they didn't take things to fast, but when he was with Stan, it was like there was some Stan Marsh override option for Kyle's coherent thought.

"Whoa, what the hell?" Ike says, breaking Kyle out of his reverie, "Dude, what the fuck happened to you? You got _that look _on your face. You know the one I'm talking about."

Kyle feels his face flush, and he mentally sighs at the fact that the pigment in his skin makes it so fucking easy for him to blush. It makes every embarrassing emotion obvious, like a neon sign flashing on his forehead, saying "I ALMOST GAVE A HANDJOB TO MY EX-SUPER BEST FRIEND" in obnoxious capital letters.

Ike elbows him and says, "Now you gotta tell me. C'mon, don't leave a brother hanging."

Kyle sighs, feeling caught, and says, "Stan and I kissed."

"Again?"

Has Kyle mentioned that Ike also got the car kiss information out of Kyle? Fucking brothers.

"Yeah, but we weren't pissed at each other this time," Kyle replies.

"Are you entirely certain that it was just kissing?" Ike eyes him, looking suspicious.

Kyle cuts him off, "Why don't we ever talk about your sex life, huh?"

"Because it's none of your business," says Ike.

"Funny, mine is none of your business, either," retorts Kyle.

"Notice how you say 'sex life' and not 'kissing life,'" Ike taunts. Kyle smacks his arm and he laughs, "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Sort of."

They pull up into Kenny's driveway (which could really use some weeding around the edges, Kyle wonders if he should maybe mention that. Probably not when they're going to get drunk, though). Ike carries the bag as they clamor inside, and as they do, it appears that Kenny has turned the television back on. Judging by his horrified expression, Kenny is still watching Knocked Up. Stupid bastard.

"I thought that I told you to stop watching that," Kyle says.

"I am morbidly fascinated, okay?" Kenny snips back, "Why is Short Round here?"

"Hey, fuck you," Ike says cheerily, "I'm taller than both of you assholes now."

"But why are you here?" Kenny queries, giving Ike a look.

Kyle jumps in, saying, "Our parents were giving him 'the talk.'"

"Yeah, for about the thousandth fucking time," Ike complains, "Is it so impossible to believe that I can figure out how to fucking wrap that shit up? Jesus."

Somehow, it's weird to hear Ike say that. Kyle knows his brother has sex, he knows Ike lost his virginity at sixteen (and Kyle is a little envious, because he definitely lost his much, much later than that, unless you counted _that one time_ with Stan, which he didn't, really). But as he's said too many times before, it's all different in person.

Kenny is pouting a little, now, upset on the basis that little Ike Broflovski is talking about the ease of putting on a goddamn condom when _the one fucking time he forgot about a condom_ has transformed into the biggest shitstorm of his life. He flips off the television and joins the other two where Ike is arranging alcohol on the small kitchen table.

"You only bought two things? Weak," Ike says.

"Kenny has cheap shit hanging around if we run out, but I don't think we will. Are we smoking, too? Kenny?"

"That's a good idea," Kenny says dazedly, "I hadn't thought of that."

That's Kyle's biggest cue of the day that his friend is out of sorts. His fight with Wendy earlier must have been fucking _bad_. Kyle loves Wendy, don't get him wrong, she's fun to hang around, even if she is a little politically correct for his tastes. It's just that he loves Kenny just as much – probably more, since they're bros. And Kenny is trying so fucking hard. It's difficult to watch. It just sucks from any angle that you spin it at. He feels like he's trapped in world's most awkward web of awkwardness. Ever. _EVER. _Kenny was so fucking excited about that crib. It was probably stupid to get that excited about something that was destined to fail. Kyle wishes that Stan had brought Kenny back down to reality before this afternoon even happened.

He knows that's kind of unfair. Nobody wants to have to knock their friend back to reality. And Kenny seems to be needing that a lot, lately.

Ike must be following a similar train of thought, though almost certainly from a vaguer standpoint. At least, this is what Kyle guesses from the expression that Ike sends him. Brotherly telepathy: _Holy shit he is not in his right mind. _

"I'll get it," says Kyle.

"How do you know where –"

"I ran out of socks," Kyle explains.

Kyle returns to Ike and Kenny having already poured whiskey shots. As he approaches with Kenny's weed and the glass pipe he found even further into the recesses of the sock drawer, the two of them tip back. Kenny doesn't have a chaser, but Ike employs the use of a glass of orange juice. Beside Ike's arm is also a glass of water. Kyle can't help but roll his eyes a little. Ike swears by drinking water while he's boozing, says he's never had a hangover in his life because of it. Kyle doesn't know if he entirely believes that.

They've set up a shot glass for Kyle, too. Kenny's a big fan of novelty shot glasses. It stems from Kenny's love of spontaneous two or three day long road trips. He owns a bunch of glasses and key chains with the names of obscure cities in the midwestern United States. Kyle's is from some place in Wyoming.

About two or three shots in, Kenny is bugging Ike about his relationship with Craig's younger sister. He's grinning from ear to ear, and Ike is scowling. Much to Kyle's satisfaction, his brother is also blushing. He doesn't know how Kenny managed to accomplish that. Kyle doesn't even remember if he's ever been able to make Ike blush.

"No, no," Kenny says, waving a wild hand, "I seriously want to know. What is she into? Oh, dude," he adds at the end, now addressing Kyle, "do you think she's into the same stuff in bed that Craig is? That would be so fucking weird."

Kyle's brows lift and he asks dryly, "Do you like the same things as Kevin and Karen?"

He laughs, "Definitely not. But seriously, Short Round, you're being awful shy for a dude that _claims_ to be getting laid regularly."

"I am!" protests Ike, "I just don't want to tell you…because it's weird, okay?" He folds his arms in finality.

Kenny swishes back another shot (Kyle lost track of how many Kenny has had, but it's enough that he is way far gone) and says, "S'okay. I get it. Your girlfriend's super kinky. It's actually kind of cool, though I bet asshole Craig would like you a little less if he knew."

"What? You're drunk," Ike says, even though he, too, is clearly far from sober, "Craig doesn't give two shits about his sister's private life. He's all about privacy." Kyle finds it extremely strange to listen to Ike talk about a dude that he's grown up with like they're friends or something. But, he supposes, Craig and Ike are kind of buddy-buddy. Craig doesn't seem like the type that would have it any other way when it comes to his sister's boyfriends.

Kyle's beginning to think that he is the only one that's not hammered. He's only had one shot, himself, and is nursing a bottle of his beer thoughtfully. Sure, he's had a hit or two from Kenny's pipe, but the feeling isn't quite lingering. He thinks Kenny must have gotten some shitty-ass pot, since it's doing basically nothing.

Or maybe he's so high that he doesn't know he's high.

Kyle takes that thought as a sign that he is most definitely high.

Within another hour, the attempted conversation between them dissolves, talking from then is Kenny moaning on about the fight he had with Wendy. It seems to have consisted of Wendy telling Kenny that he doesn't need to be involved, even though he clearly already is and that does not look as though it's going to change.

"I wanna go to sleep," mopes Kenny, sounding all dejected. It seems as if the mini-party has the opposite effect that Kyle had hoped that it would.

Kyle frowns deeply and asked, "You gonna be okay, man?"

"No," says Kenny, "I'm upset." Kyle leaves it at that, and Kenny leaves the table, slogging up the stairs.

Ike whistles lowly as soon as they hear the sound of Kenny's bedroom door closing, "You guys _suck_ at partying. Jesus."

"He's really torn up about this," Kyle mumbles, looking dubiously at the staircase. He checks his watch. For fuck's sake. It's not even ten o'clock. He feels like he might have to stage an intervention on this whole Wendy thing. Okay, that's a little dramatic. Maybe he just needs to take Wendy out for coffee and explain a little to her what he's seeing now. Surely, she'll understand. She's a tough lady, but Kyle knows she's not without her feelings.

Ike makes a frustrated noise and says, "This is almost as bad as the condoms talk."

"It is not," Kyle protests, but he thinks that Ike might be right. He jokes, though, "At least now you get a firsthand example of why the fuck you use protection." Neither of them actually laughs, though, and then Kyle just ends up feeling bad.

"Ruby's on birth control anyway," Ike says.

Kyle feels kind of grossed out.

Ike gives up on the "party" shortly thereafter. He plops onto the sofa and turns on the television, pulling one of Kenny's quilts up over him.

And Kyle retires to his room.

Kyle doesn't sleep very well. He drifts in and out, and sort of has a crappy headache. Sometime around midnight, he gets up to take a piss and down a couple aspirin. He feels a bit better after that, slipping into a hazy, dreamless sleep.

He's startled out of it, though, when his phone goes off, beeping shrilly to indicate that he's gotten a text. He grunts and rolls over, flipping his phone screen open.

_From: Stan: You awake_

_To: Stan: I am now._

Kyle glances at the old radio alarm clock on the table beside the guest bed. It's barely past four in the morning. He feels a lot more lucid than he did when he woke up last, and now that he's up, he doesn't really feel like trying to go back to sleep. Besides, he wants to see what Stan wants, anyway.

_From: Stan: Sorry_

And then a few minutes later

_From: Stan: Can't fall asleep tho, wanna come over_

_To: Stan: Sure whatever. Give me fifteen._

He won't say it out loud, but he's flattered by the idea that Stan would text him at four in the morning and ask him to come over. They've only been friends again for what, a couple of days? But it already has that feeling that they've been friends again for years. Plus he misses Stan, sort of like you miss somebody that you have a desperate schoolboy crush on. Like all you want to do is hang out with them and forget that anybody else exists. That's how it's felt since they had their not-entirely-appropriate kissing on the couch incident.

Kyle doesn't bother changing out of his sweatpants and pajama t-shirt (which is actually just the shirt that he wore that day. Well, technically yesterday). He doesn't bother with his tennis shoes, stealing Kenny's leather flip flops instead – even though Kenny's feet are a size and half bigger than his own and they're kind of shifty. He walks to Stan's. It's that time of the morning in which the sunrise hasn't broken the sky yet, but the sky is that tentative dusky color – morning enough that there are already birds singing.

But the stars are still out.

That's one thing you can't get in a city. Seeing this many stars. There are so many that it's almost like somebody spilled a can of silver craft glitter onto construction paper. It's goddamned gorgeous, and Kyle can't help but take a moment to appreciate it. He missed those stars.

Kyle knocks on Stan's door, and he answers in a similar getup. Something that says "I tried to sleep but couldn't." He's wearing flannel pajama pants (which should be a little warm for summer weather, but Kyle doesn't question it) and a tight-fitting ribbed tank top. His eyes are shadowed from sleeplessness, but nevertheless, when he sees Kyle, his lips quirk up on one side in his crooked, hesitant smile, and he and Kyle hug.

"Let's go for a drive," Stan says, and Kyle doesn't question it. Apparently, Stan has prepared. He grabs a couple of hot thermoses of Tweek's coffee and they wander to Stan's Ford. The stereo plays some chilled-out tune from one of Stan's CDs when Stan starts up the machine. Kyle leans his head back against the headrest and props his flip-flopped feet on the dash.

They don't drive for very long, only a stretch of few miles out of South Park and into the mountains. Stan pulls off on the edge of the road, onto one of the places that's been flattened and covered in gravel so that tourists can see some pretty view if they're inclined to pause their drive.

"What're we doing?" asks Kyle. He feels the need to whisper for some reason, and he isn't quite sure why. It's just that the mountains are quiet all around them, and they didn't pass a single other car on the road, even though it's a highway.

Stan climbs onto the hood of his car and says, "We're watching the sunrise." He tosses Kyle one of the thermoses of coffee and Kyle takes a long sip. It's godly stuff, not that he'd expect any less to come from Tweek.

It's like when they were kids, and they had sleepovers together. They'd stay up for the entire night, watching movies or playing video games – until it got to the point in the night when Kenny and Cartman would fall asleep and it would just be them, just Stan and Kyle. They'd whisper for hours in their sleeping bags, about just about anything. Their worries in school, their favorite superheroes, the way that they beat this level of this game, or how they wished that every night was a weekend night so that they could talk like that forever.

It feels a little different, now, though.

Kyle follows Stan's lead, where he's slid up from the hood and onto the roof of his car. The sun is barely peeking over the crags of some of the lower peaks. Kyle finds himself staring at Stan instead of looking at the sliver of sunlight. He decides to make a move, or something like that. He's not exactly socially graceful, but Kyle is incredibly proud of the stunt he pulls then. He slides his arm around Stan's waist, drawing him close, so that their thighs touch, and he places a kiss to Stan's cheek. It feels kind of funny when they're sleepy as shit and both kind of stubbly.

"Kyle," Stan says, very quiet. It's exactly like one of their old sleepovers, except if it were truly authentic, Cartman and Kenny would be passed out in the backseat of Stan's Ford or something. But no. It's just the two of them. And maybe that's why it's different.

"Yeah?"

"This isn't like a joke to you, or anything, is it," Stan's voice falls sort of flat and sad sounding.

A sweeping wave of guilt flushes over Kyle, and he says, "Dude, fuck no. This, uh," Kyle takes a deep breath, "This means a lot to me. Like, a weird amount of a lot." It's true, too. This feels to Kyle that they're just picking up where they left off. And they left off after _that one time_. It's only natural that they should maybe take it further than that.

"That doesn't make any sense," mumbles Stan.

"Yes it does," insists Kyle, but before he can further his argument accordingly, Stan covers his lips in a mind-blowing kiss. Stan tastes like coffee and morning breath, the latter of which usually would bother Kyle beyond all belief. Kyle is a firm believer in regular teeth brushing. It's right up there with washing your hands after you go to the bathroom and not peeing in the goddamn pool.

They slowly lower onto their sides on the roof of Stan's car. Stan draws his mouth away from Kyle's to press soft, hesitant kisses along Kyle's stubble-covered jaw. Kyle makes an involuntary noise deep in his throat, some sort of desperate whine. He feels Stan smirk against his neck.

"Dude," Stan states.

"What?" Kyle's eyes snap open him, and he looks at Stan, where he's situated with his head resting against Kyle's neck, his blue eyes looking up, and sort of reflecting the barest amount of sunrise that's growing in the sky.

"That was like, the hottest noise I've ever heard," Stan murmurs back.

"Oh," is all that Kyle manages to get out before Stan captures his lips again, even though he wants to say more.

Kyle will fully confess to being awful in situations like this. He just wants the blab on and on about shit that doesn't matter, filling silence with at least some sort of sound. That doesn't seem necessary now, though. Stan's arms snake their way around his torso, and Kyle's being pulled up on top of his friend.

They lie like that for a long time, exchanging kisses and bites. Stan sucks gently on Kyle's neck.

There's no hiding it now. Sweatpants do not make for a good hard-on camouflage.

Fortunately, neither do flannel pajamas. The fact that Stan is just as worked up as he is makes him less anxious and self-conscious. They begin to roll their hips together in tiny thrusts, trying to keep their heavy breathing quiet, as if they're at one of those old slumber parties, pretending to be asleep when a parent would check on them. That somehow makes it seem a lot more secret and undercover, which is ridiculous, since they're pulled off of a deserted highway and on top of the damn car. Every time their erections brush against one another's, Kyle tamps down his moans. He's terrible at being quiet.

Stan tears his lips off of Kyle's and pushes hard kisses to his damp hairline. Only then does Kyle realize that one of Stan's hands has moved off of his back, and has found itself at the elastic band of his sweatpants. Stan lets his fingers linger there, as though he's not sure.

Kyle mutters, "Mm, do it already," and takes Stan by the wrist, pushing his hand inside of the sweatpants.

Stan chuckles breathily, and Kyle does too – but his soft laugh reduces to a gasp in a handful of seconds. Stan's long fingers dip past his briefs and wrap confidently around his cock, pumping it smoothly.

"Christ," Kyle manages to mumble. He tucks his head against Stan's neck and kisses there to muffle the noises that he can't help but make, groans and sighs of satisfaction. He has just enough sense in his head to peel his right hand from Stan's shoulder and press his fingers down to return the favor.

"Damn, Stan," Kyle says with a choked laugh.

Stan's brows lift, questioning Kyle's words, and he explains, as a red blush spreads across his cheeks, "It's just that it feels quite a bit bigger than when we were fourteen." He kind of wants to see it, too, but he doesn't want the ministrations on his own dick stop. They're a tangle of limbs, all bent into each other like one of those 3-D puzzles you buy at a bookstore.

Stan does laugh at that, and he delivers a punch to Kyle's arm with his free hand.

They kiss, mashing lips and tongues and teeth together in rushed pieces of time, pulling away only when they need to breathe for a short few seconds. Stan's hand feels so fucking good. He feels like he's in one of his age-old wet dreams, except it's real.

Kyle's the first to go. He bucks up into Stan's hand in choppy thrusts, gasping and completely inattentive to loud sounds of satisfaction that are involuntarily tearing out of his throat, before he comes, harder than he has in a long time. His orgasm gives him the brainless wash of energy that he needs to work Stan harder.

Stan finally makes a noise as loud as one of Kyle's. He grunts as if in pain and cries hoarsely, "Jesus tap dancing Christ," before Kyle feels a spurt of warmth covering his fingers.

For several rolling minutes, they lay with their hands still tucked into each other's pants, struggling to catch their breath. Stan leans his head close and kisses Kyle's temple, which is throbbing with adrenaline. His blood pumps so quickly that he can hardly keep up with it. Stan, meanwhile, is on the brink of wheezing, and Kyle wonders if he still needs an inhaler for his asthma. The sun is almost all the way up now, lighting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and magenta and gold. There's nothing quite like a Coloradan sunrise.

They turn their heads toward each other at the exact same moment, bumping noses.

"Ow," expresses Kyle.

"Shit, sorry!" Stan stage-whispers, his voice dry and creaking from the exertion.

Kyle smiles sheepishly and rubs at his nose. He says, "I've got the big nose, don't worry about it."

"I like your nose," Stan informs him.

Kyle doesn't know what to say to that. Stan sounds sincere, but it's the kind of compliment that doesn't sound true at all.

To punctuate, Stan places a tired, damp kiss to Kyle's nose and says, "Seriously."

_Nothing is different, but everything's changed. _

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you as always to the people that motivate these obscenely quick updates, my splendid reviewers: Wendlekins, VannaUsagi13, Mallory, NightmareMyLove, WxTxR, Porn Mercenary, TheAwesome15, Bubbl3wrapguy, lily's mom09, conversefreak3, dotdotdanii, Neavvs, Miroir Twin, prettyoddrydonfan, blah (Anonymous? I am not entirely sure what to call you!), and Jen.**

**Before you say anything – I have written Stan and Kyle moving fast on purpose. That's all I'm saying about that. ;) **


	8. I'm Just One Man

**Chapter Track: This Is My Life – Firewater **

Stan is feeling some torn emotion, something stuck between bliss, love and sheer terror. Bliss, because he hasn't actually done anything sexual with another human being in just under a year, love, because it's Kyle fucking Broflovski that he just did this with, and terror, because he's afraid to his very core that a) he will manage to fuck this up somehow, or b) Kyle will get bored with this and they will return to the shitty and broken state that they've been in for years.

It's an awful jumble of too many feelings and Stan can't say for sure that he likes it. He can, however, say that he likes what they're doing. He likes it a whole fucking lot, in fact. After they both come down from their respective climaxes, Stan leaps off of the roof and grabs the fistful of crumpled KFC napkins that have been sitting in his left cup holder for God only knows how long. They use those to clean themselves up as much as they can – Stan still feels all sticky and kind of gross, but he finds that he doesn't mind. Not that Stan not giving a shit about being sticky is something new, as he often finds himself waking up and/or falling asleep in something sticky or gross. Kyle's more bothered by it, he can tell.

But, of course, Kyle won't say anything about being bothered by the stickiness and sweatiness and general state of sloppiness that they're both in. Not that they started out looking neat and clean, anyway.

Stan climbs back onto the roof of his Ford and slides an arm around Kyle's thin shoulders. Despite still being skinny, he's filled out a lot since leaving South Park. He looks less like the shrimpy, motivated-as-fuck asshole that he was at seventeen and more like a slender, very attractive version of that same person. That's not to say that Stan didn't find seventeen-year-old Kyle Broflovski attractive at the time, because he did. Maybe too much. It's just that Kyle has become unfairly handsome and he looks like a hermit that rolls around in beer and dogs all day.

Which is, essentially, what he does.

But still.

"Hey Stan?" Kyle says questioningly.

"Mm?" Stan is too busy leaning down and nuzzling the hollow of Kyle's throat.

Kyle nudges him back and says, "Cut that out, I'm trying to be serious." Stan sometimes forgets that he's dealing with the same old Kyle that he used to know, but this reminds him, and so he sits back and assumes an air of being ready to politely listen while his brain actually just drifts off into thinking about sex.

"What does this make us?" Kyle asks, "Not that I want to put pressure on you, or anything. I'm just…wondering."

"Uh, I dunno," Stan shrugs, pretending to be chill when he's anything but chill in reality. _This means I love you. This means you shouldn't leave me again. _Instead of those things, he says, "I guess it can be whatever you want it to be, dude. I didn't get to thinking that far ahead." He offers a short, sort of forced laugh, and hopes that Kyle doesn't notice the feelings behind his lie. Kyle probably won't catch the dishonesty – he's not good with understanding feelings, never was. At least now it'll work to Stan's advantage.

Kyle runs his fingers through the back of Stan's hair. It feels nice, and when Stan makes a small noise of satisfaction and leans back into the movement, Kyle finally speaks, "Maybe…like, super best friends with benefits?" He suggests, with a chuckle in his voice, "I mean, I have to go back to New Hampshire in August. But it would be cool if we could, you know, do this. And we can Skype each other and crap, since we're okay again. We are okay, right?"

"No, Kyle, I totally hate you," Stan says, but Kyle looks shocked and upset, having clearly missed the sarcasm in Stan's voice. Stan kicks him lightly and clarifies, "You fucking moron. You _do_ realize that we just jerked each other off on top of my goddamn car right next to the highway, right? This may surprise you, but I don't let just anyone touch my dick. And I don't touch just anyone else's dick, either."

Actually, the prospect of Kyle leaving again makes Stan feel sick to his stomach. But he doesn't want to ruin such a perfect moment.

Kyle rolls his eyes at Stan, but kisses him afterward. He says, "Super best friends with benefits it is, then. Asshole."

Stan shoves him flippantly and they both laugh.

When the sun is fully up in the sky, they finally slide down from their perch and load back into Stan's car. Kyle sips absently at the thermos of coffee that Stan prepared for him. That coffee is probably cold now, Stan thinks, but Kyle's mind must elsewhere.

"Stan?"

"Yup?"

"This is a weird favor to ask, but do you think you could talk to Wendy about Kenny?" Kyle queries, "I think she'll at least hear you out, even if she decides not to listen to you."

Just as Stan opens his mouth to respond, Kyle's phone begins to ring, and he turns his attention back to the road.

"I couldn't sleep, I just went for a drive with Stan," he hears Kyle say. And then, "He couldn't sleep either, you nosy fuck. I swear on our mother, Ike, I will fucking find out whatever weird shit it is that you do with your girlfriend, and once I do, you will never bother me about whatever sex I may or may not have had. Yes, we're driving back, now. Put your panties on. Okay. See you soon."

Stan laughs when Kyle flips the phone shut and shoves it into the pocket of his sweatpants. He looks just like the Kyle he remembers, all heated up and pissed off.

"Shut up," Kyle mutters, "You're lucky, you have a family that isn't in your business 24-fucking-7. Anyway, will you do it? Talk to Wendy?"

"Sure, I guess," Stan gives a careless shrug of his shoulders, "To be honest, I'm not sure what good I can do. This whole thing with them is _fucked_."

"You're telling me," Kyle replies, "and you don't even live with them."

The conversation dies there, because Stan pulls up in front of Kenny's house. Kyle thanks him for the coffee, which Stan thinks is funny, but then he says, "And we should do this again sometime," and leans forward, giving Stan a long, thorough kiss. Before Stan can reassemble the scattered scraps of his brain, Kyle is already out of the Ford and making his way toward the house, the flip flops borrowed from Kenny making a loud slapping noise against the pavement.

Stan glances at the time on his car stereo before starting up and heading back to his place. It isn't even seven o'clock, yet. It's just barely half-past six. He could probably fall asleep now if he tried, after _that_ adventure. He won't lie – what happened is what he had hoped would happen, but he wasn't banking on it. He thinks that Kyle is just as starved for physical contact as he is, if he's judging correctly.

But Wendy's probably already up – she's always been an early riser. Stan wonders if she still jogs every morning, even though she's pregnant. Probably. She'd never use pregnancy as a reason to stop her exercise regimen, even if it would be perfectly reasonable to do so.

_To: Wendy: Hey, wanna get coffee this evening_

_From: Wendy: If Kenny asked you to do this, then no._

_To: Wendy: Close, Kyle did. But we haven't talked since the welcome party anyway, we should catch up_

_From: Wendy: All the catching up you need to do with me is visible on my body, Stanley. _

_To: Wendy: C'monnn_

Stan can almost hear Wendy heave a sigh, even though she's probably across town. She knows he's just going to try and convince her to cut Kenny a break, and she doesn't want to hear it anymore. So, Stan whips out the best weapon he's got:

_To: Wendy: It'll make me look good to Kyle if you do it_

_To: Wendy: We can just tell him that you're not going to listen to me_

_To: Wendy: About Kenny, I mean_

_To: Wendy: Don't be an asshole_

The last text gets her attention.

_From: Wendy: I'm being an asshole? You're being an asshole! Don't make me do this._

_To: Wendy: Please._

_From: Wendy: Fine. Tweak Bros at seven, and I'll cut you if you're more than five minutes late._

_To: Wendy: Aye, aye cap'n_

_From: Wendy: Shut up_

When Stan returns to his townhouse, it's a brief visit to feed his dogs and iron his work slacks – the latter of which proves to be harder than he thought because he hasn't ironed anything in forever (on the basis of him not being sober enough to utilize potentially hot household objects. He doesn't trust himself with hot things when he's drunk or hungover, which is most of the time), and because Thor waddles up the stairs and sits next to him, with that love-me-I'm-fucking-adorable look on his face.

Which is why Stan shows up a solid ten minutes late to work with half-ironed slacks covered in dog hair.

This is, sadly, the most eventful part of his afternoon. It's one of those days in which no animals in the surrounding area are having any problems whatsoever. They're all busy being healthy little fuckers (Stan likes to think that this is on his watch), and so he leaves the office early, with the promise that he'll keep his cell on him for if he's needed.

When he arrives at Tweak Bros, Wendy is in the same booth that Kyle was in the day that they got coffee together, and across from her is Stan's usual (He guesses Wendy told Tweek that if Stan was late, it would be his own damned fault if his coffee went cold).

Wendy looks good, too good. If Stan were straight, he'd totally understand why Kenny is so freakishly obsessed with it. Sure, she looks young to have the baby belly on her body, but she looks so _fucking put together_. Although she was wearing a regular scoop-necked t-shirt, she accessorizes with a silk scarf and what appear to be real diamond earrings. Stan slides in across from her, and greets, "You look nice."

"Thank you, Stanley," Wendy says, and she does not return the compliment, because Stan has been awake since three in the morning, did nothing but play Tetris on his computer at work, and didn't bother shaving when he returned home, instead opting to play Xbox while Lucy made his stomach into her new pillow. He didn't shower, either, just pulled on his red and blue skit hat and called it a day. To be short, he looks haggard. It probably isn't the best way to look when he's attempting to talk a lady into trusting one of his friends with responsibility, but oh well. Now it won't be difficult to convince Wendy that Kenny is ten times more responsible than Stan is. Surely, that has to be a plus.

"So, uh, you got any names picked out?" he asks, not really interested but willing to make polite conversation before turning it awkward. He makes a vague gesture at her round stomach, and Wendy rolls her eyes.

"Not yet," she replies wryly, "Now just cut to the chase so I can go home."

Stan frowns, "You don't want to spend time with me? I'm hurt."

"If you'd invited me here for any reason other than to pester me, I would love to hang out with you," Wendy says pointedly, and then Stan kind of feels bad. She's good at that – making him feel guilty. It's not necessarily a bad quality, it's just that Wendy often points out the obvious logic in a situation and proceeds to make Stan feel stupid.

He drinks a bit of his coffee first, deciding that he'll let himself have a nice glass of scotch for doing this favor, and then says, "Look, he's a great guy."

"I know that," Wendy says, "But a great person isn't necessarily a great _father_. And besides, I can take care of myself."

"Is that what this is about? You don't want to feel like other people are taking care of you? Everybody needs to be taken care of sometimes," Stan says.

"No, it's not –" Wendy cuts herself off, and breaks her gaze away from Stan. She says, "I'm scared, okay? I'm not prepared for this at all, but I don't know. When I got to thinking, I knew I could afford to take care of this baby and I wanted to. It's just that I need somebody that wants the same things. You get that, right?"

Stan's brows crunch together and he responds, "Dude, I don't think I've seen Kenny get this worked up about something in…ever."

"That's just it, though! He's acting like I'm some sort of territory to him, it's –"

"Don't tell me that you actually think that," Stan interrupts, "That's one of Kenny's things, actually. Not treating people like his property. He's confused about this, too. But he cares. Like a lot. I'd know, I went furniture shopping with him."

"You _encouraged_ him? Damn it, Stan, I thought you were on my side," Wendy rests her cheek against her hand. She's typically so much more positive than she is right now. At least, she was positive the last time that he really spoke to her, which was back before she left South Park to go to New York. Now, she's all negative and worried. It's kind of giving Stan the creeps. Maybe it's hormones? Jesus, he doesn't know anything about this.

"He's gonna make the guest room into a nursery when Kyle leaves, you know," Stan says quietly, "At least, those were his plans last time we talked. I don't know if they changed after you guys fought or whatever."

Wendy opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again while she thinks. After a couple seconds, she says, "We argued because I don't like him spending money on me like that."

"He's not spending it on you, he's spending it on the baby…fetus…thing," Stan waves at her pregnant belly, "Come on, he already loves it and it's not even a person yet. It's actually kind of pathetic."

"That's unkind," Wendy chides, "He's a little…_off beat_, but Kenny isn't pathetic at all."

"I rest my case," Stan folds his arms. Apparently Wendy can't think of what to say to that, because the two of them sit in silence.

Tweek approaches the booth and asks, "Do you w-want a refill, Stan?"

"Sure, thanks, dude," Stan submits, lifting his empty coffee much so that Tweek can fill it with the pitcher in his clutch. He asks, "Hey, Tweek? What do you think about Kenny?"

Tweek hands the mug back to Stan and eyes the two of them, looking uncomfortable. His eyes fall on Wendy's stomach and it's like Tweek knows exactly what Stan's question is really about. But he answers, "Jesus, man, I dunno. He was nice to me in high school when the rest of you guys were busy being – _ngh – _giant dickheads, and he gave me half off my tires last week. He said it was 'cause I give him free coffee sometimes, but I'm not stupid, man! A few cups of coffee costs a lot less than a new set of tires." Tweek blushes as he speaks. Stan pauses to wonder if Tweek has ever said that much to him before, and concludes that Tweek must actually like Kenny quite a bit to have come so willingly to his defense.

Either that, or Tweek is totally oblivious to the situation at hand. That is entirely likely.

"Am I being at all convincing?" Stan questions, when Tweek retreats behind the counters to shroud himself in the protection of the espresso machines.

"I like being on my own," Wendy says stiffly.

"I'm not asking you to date him, I'm asking to you reassure him that you're not gonna drag your guys' kid where he'll never see it. When I suggested that that might happen, he almost shit his pants in fear, by the way."

"That's gross, Stan," Wendy wrinkles her nose. She taps her perfectly French manicured hands against the table, frowning deeply, "It's just – well. Give me your honest opinion, here. Do you really, truly think that Kenny would be a good influence? He was all drugged out in high school, and I swear to God, he can't go two minutes without making a 'that's what she said' joke."

"Do you think he's retarded? He knows how to censor himself when he needs to," Stan says, and then mutters under his breath, "Besides, any kid of his will probably emerge from the womb making 'that's what she said' jokes, anyhow."

"I heard that, and that's not funny," Wendy says.

"Yes it is," insists Stan.

"No, it isn't," Wendy looks exasperated.

Stan blurts, "At least you're not having my child! Look at how much of a fuck up _I _am, and then think about how much more appealing Kenny is."

"That's ridiculous. You're not a fuck up," Wendy says.

Stan nurses his coffee and shakes his head, "If I'm not a fuck up, then Kenny is a goddamned monarch. He's doing well, and he wants to include you and the velociraptor in it, you know. He cares. Like a lot."

Wendy arches a brow, "Velociraptor?"

"Long story," Stan dismisses her, "He just cares so much, I wish you could see –"

"I know he cares. That's what I'm afraid of," Wendy says, "When we're not fighting, he's frighteningly considerate. It terrifies me, Stan. I don't want that kind of commitment. The kind where he buys me organic tea and cribs and calls me 'sweetheart' when he thinks I'm not listening."

"He bought you tea?"

"It was very sweet, really. It was a tea specifically for pregnant women," Wendy sighs into her hands, "I'm just not ready to be with one person for the rest of my life."

"Oh," Stan says, because Kenny has actually seemed okay with this same commitment that Wendy is afraid of, and it's out of character for both of their personalities. For a small moment, he is very, very glad to be gay and not in any danger of getting somebody pregnant. Then his brain accidentally pictures Kyle pregnant, and he snorts into his coffee.

"What?"

"I was just imagining Kyle being pregnant," Stan says, choking a little on his ill-timed swallow of coffee.

Wendy gives a surprised bark of laughter, "Oh, I see. What have _you _been up to, Mr. Marsh?"

Shit. Stan flushes and mumbles, "Shut up."

"I'm kidding, Jesus," Wendy says, "but I'm really, really glad that you've reconciled with Kyle, okay? Like, words cannot express how delighted that makes me."

They smile at each other, then. God, Wendy is admittedly a pain sometimes, but Stan knows that she supports him. She always has. When he reaches across the table and takes hold of her much smaller hand, she laces her fingers through his. He lowers his voice to something barely above a whisper and says, "Look. I don't want you to compromise your values or anything, but would it hurt to try and be just a little nicer to Kenny? He's trying so fucking hard, Wendy. I think he just wants you to see that."

Wendy gives a sad little sigh. There's a lot of history in that sigh that Stan doesn't know about. He hopes he isn't crossing the line. But she says, "I'll give it my best."

"Thanks, dude. That's really awesome of you," Stan says.

She smirks and answers, "I know, but it doesn't hurt to hear it another time."

"You're awesome," Stan repeats to humor her.

Her smirk grows wider, "Thanks. Hey, I've gotta – um, gotta run. I'm going to apologize or something for shouting at him."

"Let me know how that goes," Stan gives her a wide smile as she withdraws her hand from his, picks up her purse, and waves goodbye.

She drops a kiss to his cheek first, and says, voice set in a strange, motherly tone, "And Stan, you're not a fuck up, okay?" before she swiftly walks out the front door, the click of the heels of her boots and the bell on the door signaling her exit.

Funny, he didn't think that he was going to be able to talk her into anything at all. Stan thinks that Wendy might actually care a whole hell of a lot more about Kenny than she thinks she does. She's kind of like Kyle in the way that she isn't talented at reading feelings, particularly her own. But he trusts her. She'll sort her shit out eventually. She always does.

Stan lingers in Tweak Bros for awhile, taking refills for his coffee when Tweek offers them. He rests his feet on the bench across from him and gazes out the window. It's fucking hot outside today, though he supposes it is nearing the end of June, and that's when things seem to be hottest to him. That, and August.

Ha. August.

Stan doesn't want to think about August. Not only will the weather be hot as hell outside, but Kyle will be leaving.

Maybe he's getting ahead of himself by letting the knowledge affect him as much as it does, or maybe he's just making up for lost time. His mental alarms have been going off about this – telling him, _don't get involved, you'll get hurt, the world is shit anyway, don't make it worse. _Stan's heart, unfortunately, is another matter entirely. The urges of the heart are more like _Finally finally finally, never leave me, this is perfect, I am so happy, keep going. _

Stan inhales through his nostrils and wonders why the fuck it's so damned hard for those two to agree.

The lack of harmony between his head and his heart causes the incontrovertible urge to drink himself stupid to rise up in his system.

At that, Stan rises, pulling a couple of crumpled bills from the pocket of his shorts and tossing them onto the table beside his empty coffee mug. He walked to Tweak Bros in lieu of driving, since Stan had plenty of time left from not needing to be at work, and the walk back to his house is just as leisurely, despite his craving for the glass of scotch that he promised himself.

His phone vibrates, and he smiles when he sees that it's a text from Kyle.

_From: Kyle: Okay you have to tell me honestly _– Stan's heart skips a beat. That isn't typically how he'd like a text from Kyle to begin – _are you a wizard?_

Oh. Stan laughs uneasily at his own mini-panic and types a response.

_To: Kyle: As far as I know, no. Never got my letter to Hogwarts. Why?_

_From: Kyle: Lol okay, if you're sure. Wendy came over and told him she was sorry. Wtf did you do?_

Stan actually isn't sure what he did that convinced Wendy, exactly. He pockets his phone, forgetting the text conversation altogether when his townhouse appears over the crest of the hill. He wipes his feet on the welcome mat and discards his shoes carelessly in the foyer, as his dogs bound up to him in greeting.

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Stan puts his hands up when Daisy jumps up (on her back legs, she's just about as tall as he is) and places her paws on his shoulders, giving his face an enthusiastic couple of licks. Stan lets them out into the back yard before retreating to his liquor cabinet (which he was relieved that Kyle did not touch in his cleaning ventures, except to put bottles of this or that away, there) to pull out some good scotch.

Stan switches on his Xbox, placing glass and bottle of the good stuff on the coffee table, beside where he puts his feet up and reclines into his shitty couch. After a few rounds of Nazi Zombies, he pauses to order a shitton of food from City Wok.

Stan is confused, confused about a lot of things. Just a few days ago, he'd been drinking to forget that everything in his life sucked beyond belief. Now he's drinking to tamp down the emotions swimming in his gut that are supposed to be _good. _Happiness. Love. Hope. Affection. He just wants them to _shut up_, because he knows that when Kyle is taken away from him, he'll hurt even worse than if he had decided to ignore Kyle altogether. Not like that would have been actually possible in a town like this. He would have seen Kyle's face everywhere he went.

Why is this so difficult? Life is easy when Kyle isn't around. It's routine. The same. Stan's never minded that, right? It's just that he has accepted that life is mostly shitty and boring.

Now, he feels desperate and scared, among being way hornier than usual – which he thinks is another thing that Kyle caused, being that Stan's brain now knows that there's somebody around that can relieve the feeling, other than Stan's right hand.

It's the weirdest fucking thing in the world to feel, honestly. He feels like some randy kid, which he actually is – it's just that he wasn't up until Kyle's arrival in South Park. For years, he felt like he was a tired, burned-out middle-aged man trapped inside a younger guy's body. Now he's sitting around drinking, eating takeout Chinese, and playing Xbox…while thinking about how awesome sex sounds at the moment.

He never felt like that when he was a teenager, even, except for leading up to and a few months following _that one time_ when he and Kyle were fourteen. His hormones gave him nasty dreams, for sure, but by day Stan had managed to stomp on them, because he knew that nobody would ever care enough about him to want to do all the dirty things he thought of doing in his head. Not that he blamed them. His teenage years hadn't been pretty. He would rather forget the greasy-haired, acne-ridden years of his life, thank you very much.

And he's still a mess, now.

He doesn't know what he's doing. What the _fuck_ is he doing?

Stan is so lost. He doesn't understand how everybody else seems so sure of what they want, at least enough that they're not agonizing over it while drowning their sorrows in scotch and mediocre Chinese food.

Kyle is going back to school for his Master's.

Kenny has a job that he loves.

Cartman is going to school on his mother's dime.

And Stan is…doing what, exactly?

Lingering in South Park with about as many plans for the future as he has when he graduated from high school at eighteen years old? That is to say, no plans at all. But Stan doesn't want to plan, no. Not at all. Plans always go awry. And when he's tried in the past, everything failed.

Stan never told anyone, but he wanted to go to college. Once upon a time, anyway.

He hadn't gotten grades decent enough to go. By the tail end of his days in high school, he had given up caring whatsoever. He didn't go to class, he didn't do his homework, and when he was in school, he was asleep. He remembered doing a lot of sleeping around that time, and very little else, save for drinking with Kenny, or drinking by himself and crying himself to sleep. Pathetic. Fucking pathetic.

Damn it. Stan glares at the glass of scotch in his hand. He's lost count of how many he's had tonight, but he's pretty sure that it's more alcohol than he should be having. Ha. Story of his life. He started drinking this shit to bring himself back to reality, and that is exactly what he got.

It's just that…

For a moment…

He let himself forget how shitty the reality of his life is.

He becomes so wrapped up in Kyle when they're together, his crappy excuse for a life vanishes from his mind completely.

Stan downs the last of the scotch in his glass in one gulp, tipping it down his throat and letting himself feel the burn. He picks his cellphone up off the coffee table and scrolls down his contacts.

"_Hey dude. What's up?"_ Kyle answers, sounding cheerful, so cheerful. How does he get that way? Stan can't know for sure.

Stan clears his throat and tries his best to make his voice sound sober, "Kyle, can you come over?"

**o.o.o.o**

**Here is a list of the fabulous people that are some of my favorite in the world, those awesome reviewers: Feta-Fingers32, lily's mom09, ObanesHarvest, TheAwesome15, Miroir Twin, VannaUsagi13, NightmareMyLove, MariePierre, blah/Kath, KirstenTheDestroyer, Chasing Rabbits, Wendlekins, Bubbl3wrapguy, WxTxR, conversefreak3, Mallory, and Magical Reality.**

**I can't figure out a way to guilt the rest of you lurkers into telling me your thoughts, so I'll just thank you for reading, instead, and I hope you're enjoying it. And if you're not, then tell me why.**

**ALSO. I thought you guys would enjoy this: I know what the middle name for Kenny's velociraptor/baby is going to be, but I **_**haven't**_** decided on the first. If any of you have suggestions that you wouldn't mind if I actually used, feel free to drop some names in a review or PM. **

**See you next chapter! **


	9. Sink into Oblivion

**Chapter Track: We Used to Vacation – Cold War Kids **

Kyle saves himself from an interrogation by Ike and Kenny by slipping into the house as quietly as possible and sneaking up the stairs. He hears Ike call, "Kyle, that you?" as a step squeaks beneath him, but dives into the safety of the guest room and locks it behind him. The last thing he wants to have to do this morning is explain to Ike that he and Stan had their hands down each other's pants and would most likely be proceeding with more at some point in the near future.

Kyle is finally tired, anyway. In spite of the coffee that he'd drunk, his eyes droop and his brain is swimmy. Maybe the effects of drinking and smoking haven't completely worn off like he thought that they had.

The first order of business, however (no matter how sleepy he is), is to clean himself up. Honestly, KFC napkins just don't do the trick. And Kyle hates being sticky.

He strips down, tossing his pajamas backwards into the bedroom, before stepping in for a cool shower. Kyle's never been a fan of hot water, it makes him all pink when he's done showering. Typically he'd choose something more temperate than cold, but he feels a bit like he needs a wakeup call.

Kyle scrubs his shampoo into his curls – he has to use that damned anti-dandruff kind, and the dry climate of Colorado isn't helping at all.

He has said it before, and he'll say it again, being back home is surreal.

But then, he wonders if South Park still counts as home. Because when he thinks of New Hampshire, of his apartment and his job, he thinks that same word: _Home._ His cheap, relatively crappy apartment _is_ his home, but when he walks down the main street of South Park (and yes, there is but one main street), he thinks the same thing. Home. This is home. But back in New Hampshire is home, too. Is it possible to have more than one home? Here, Kyle's home was made for him by other people. There, Kyle made a home for himself. And they're both equally damned important to him.

Kyle feels like he's living in one weird-ass dream. If somebody had told him when he graduated from South Park High that most of them would still be here, Wendy would be pregnant and Kenny would be the father, Cartman would be out and married to fucking _Butters_, and that Stan would live in the close equivalent of a hovel, he'd have told them that they were fucking nuts. The most successful out of any of them, unsurprisingly, is Token. Evidently, while Token was working on getting his English degree, Clyde convinced him to audition to be the new Old Spice guy – and he made it. Kyle's still a little weirded out every time Token comes out of the shower on his television screen.

As wasteful as he knows it is, Kyle lingers under the cold water. It doesn't do much, though. It doesn't snap him out of it. It doesn't bring him into the world that he thinks should be 'what really happened to those South Park kids,' it doesn't make this all a dream. It isn't a dream.

He really did have Stan's hand down his pants less than an hour ago. Okay. He can come to terms with that. After all, it's something that he's thought about on and off as a masturbation technique for eight years.

Eventually, Kyle shakes himself out of his tangled mess of thoughts. He dries himself off and puts on a fresh pair of pajamas, tossing the ones that he had been wearing into the plastic laundry basket that Kenny gave him when he first arrived here.

He slips underneath the denim quilt on his bed and sinks into the mattress. Kyle's gonna try hard to believe that this is all real. Tomorrow. For now, he'll let himself believe that he's in some stranger's dream.

Kyle wakes up at about half-past ten, feeling groggy, but good. It's insane how sleep can put the pieces of your brain back together when you need it. For now, he'll just let whatever happens next _happen_. He reassures himself that he doesn't need to be in control of every little situation in his life. He doesn't, _really_.

Kyle doesn't know who he's trying to convince.

He stretches and unlocks his bedroom door. Ike is still here – Kyle knows before he even manages to step downstairs, because he hears his brother let out a frustrated snarl and bark, "What the fuck dude? Not cool, you shithead. I will get you."

It turns out that they're playing Mario Kart.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," Kenny greets, his eyes glued to the TV screen as Kyle passes by them and into the kitchen.

"Fuck you," Kyle says. He rummages in Kenny's cramped pantry for something to eat, and surfaces with no decent breakfast material whatsoever. He calls toward the living room, "Dude, where'd the cereal go?"

"I had the last of it," Ike says, "Sorry bro. Oh, fuck, Kenny. You asshole – aagghh – and you won. _Fuck_." Ike makes a show of melodramatically tossing the controller onto the carpet and huffing, folding his arms.

"There are some Eggo waffles in the freezer, I think," offers Kenny, "Might have freezer burn, though."

"So," Ike says, apparently having recovered from his brutal Mario Kart defeat, "Kyle _went for a drive_ with Stan, this morning."

"Ike, shut up," Kyle says. He pops two waffles into Kenny's toaster and pushes them down, helping himself to a glass of orange juice in the meantime. He has to admit, breakfast is his favorite meal of the day. Everything about breakfast is delicious.

Unfortunately, breakfast can indeed be ruined by nosy-assed younger brothers.

Kenny turns off the game. He's interested in the details of Kyle's morning, of course, no matter how unwilling Kyle is to share what happened between he and Stan.

"Kyle," Kenny says.

Kyle turns to find Kenny standing directly behind him, wearing a face of such salaciousness that Kyle can't help but have the decency to blush. More accurately, his entire face goes red. "What?" he says sourly.

"You know what," Kenny says, edging closer.

Kyle waits until Kenny's close enough that he can feel his breath on his neck, and then thrusts his elbow out into his stomach. Kenny lets out a strangled _oomph_ and stumbles backward – just in time for the toaster to ding and Kyle's waffles to be ready. Kenny only has a generic store brand of syrup, but it's better than nothing. He pours it in swirls on his breakfast and sits down at the kitchen table.

"Dude," says Kenny, "You can't leave me hanging. What happened?"

"Nothing. We just went for a drive," lies Kyle whilst chewing.

Ike chirrups, "He was breathing funny when I called him."

Kyle whirls around to face his brother, where the little shit just stands lazily with a crooked, cocky grin across his stupid face, and warns, "I am going to fucking kill you."

Ike shrugs, "You couldn't. You're too much of a pussy, dude. Sorry."

Kenny laughs.

"Fine!" Kyle shouts, perhaps too loudly, as he bangs his fist against the table, "Fuck you guys, seriously, but we…we, um, _gaveeachotherhandjobs_, okay?"

Kenny lifts his brows and cups a hand around his ear, replying in sing-song, "What was that, Kyle? I didn't quite hear you."

"Jesus fucking Christ, will you give it a rest? We just jacked each other off! No big deal! So fuck you, I'm eating my goddamn waffles," Kyle proves his point by stuffing a bite of Eggo into his mouth, scowling.

Kenny simply sighs and says, "_Finally_."

"What do you mean, finally?" Kyle asks, though he meant to give Kenny and his brother the silent treatment for the rest of breakfast mere moments ago.

Kenny fiddles with the edge of his hood and says, "I've only been waiting for you guys to get on board with everybody else for fucking ever. We all know you two are, like, perfect," Kyle is about to bark out some retort when Kenny's face suddenly drops the playful expression. He frowns, and frowns look _wrong_ on Kenny, they always have. He's too happy-go-lucky for frowns. Kenny goes on, his tone changed to a sort of stony seriousness, "It killed me when you guys stopped being friends, you know."

The way that Kenny says the words _killed me_ echoes in Kyle's ears.

He doesn't feel like arguing anymore.

The remainder of breakfast passes in uncomfortable silence. Ike rolls his eyes at the two of them and returns to playing Mario Kart – this time by himself. Kenny pours his own glass of orange juice and wanders out onto his back porch. He still hasn't come back inside by the time that Kyle finishes eating and rinsing his plate, so Kyle joins him outside, instead.

Kenny's back yard has a pretty nice view. Unlike Stan's, it's not fenced off, and nor does he have a viable lawn – simply patches of weeds and mountain wildflowers surrounding a fire pit that he made himself. They haven't yet had the chance to put it to good use during Kyle's stay. Even during his welcome party, Kenny said he was too lazy to get firewood for a proper bonfire.

"Y'alright?" Kyle asks.

"Shit, I'm fine," Kenny says, "There's just so much crap going on. I dunno, I needed a second."

"I know I'm not usually the one that says this, but I think things'll turn out okay," Kyle offers. He pats Kenny's shoulder a little awkwardly, but he doesn't seem to mind the contact, so Kyle keeps his hand there.

Kenny's silent.

But then he says, "Kyle, I don't know how to take care of a kid."

"That's what this is about? Dude, I don't either, but I'm sure I could figure it out. As far as I can tell, children involve a lot of tears and a lot of poop," Kyle says, "You can handle tears and poop."

"Damn straight," says Kenny, "I am the motherfucking _master_ of tears and poop."

Kyle guffaws, "Maybe that's your next tat. 'Master of tears and poop.'"

"Somehow, I don't think that would make Wendy very happy with me," Kenny dryly remarks.

Kyle's a little put off by that statement. He doesn't want to say anything about it, though, for fear that he might hurt Kenny's feelings. It's just that, like in instances such as this one, it sounds to Kyle as though Kenny is referring to Wendy like they're dating. And Kyle is under the distinct impression that they are not. He knows for sure that they're still sleeping together (it has already caused a couple of nights on the couch downstairs with the television up loud), but Kenny and Wendy are nothing close to actually dating one another.

In truth, he's a little worried about it all. Like he said, Kenny talks about Wendy like she's his girlfriend, which she has made clear she is not. Furthermore, it's even more disturbing because Kenny's never had a desire to date monogamously. Or at all. Ever.

"You're scaring me, dude," Kyle admits, "Like, with this whole thing."

Kenny gives Kyle a look, drinking his orange juice casually, and says, "What? Can't a guy take a little responsibility?"

"Not you," Kyle shoots back.

"Oh, go fuck yourself," Kenny says amiably.

"You just talk about Wendy like you two are an item," Kyle pointedly reminds him.

"She _is_ carrying our offspring," Kenny responds, "but I know I shouldn't. It's just – and this is between you and me, you got that, fucker? – It's just that I sort of really actually kind of maybe might _like her_, you know? It fucking figures I'd fall for the one woman that doesn't want commitment. Even with a fucking bun in the oven. Like, what the hell?"

"That sounds like it might be sexist," Kyle points out.

Kenny tugs at his hood and mutters, "Crap. You're probably right. I've been trying to work on that, too, 'cause she's really up front about that shit. There is no impressing her, I fucking swear."

"Personally, I just think it's funny that you're even trying to impress her," Kyle says.

"I hate you sometimes," Kenny groans.

Kyle gives a short little laugh and pulls Kenny into a sideways hug. At first Kenny complies, but it lasts for about a second, before he shoves a cackling Kyle off to the side and says, "You're a dick, dude."

"But you love me," chuckles Kyle.

Kenny sighs, "Unfortunately true."

"I love you too, man," Kyle nudges Kenny with his elbow, and gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, "Look, I've got your back, okay? Baby mama drama or not."

Kenny rolls his eyes skyward and responds, "You forget I still have a pike with your name on it, bitch. But thanks. Sort of. You know, for the support. You're still an asshole."

"Whatever you say, Master of Tears and Poop," Kyle jokes.

"I may not be worthy of that title yet," Kenny warns, "I am but an Apprentice of Tears and Poop, for now."

They burst out laughing. Kyle, somewhere in his logical mind, knows that laughing about poop is juvenile, but doesn't actually give two shits. Pun intended. It's just fun to be immature with his best friends again. Besides, whatever, poop is funny.

That evening, long after Ike has returned to his place at the Broflovski house, Kyle experiences the magic of grocery shopping with Kenny McCormick. It's no wonder the guy has no food in his house – his first damned inclination is to buy snack food, Eggo waffles, Poptarts or dinosaur oatmeal. Kyle decides that he's a good influence on Kenny, since he buys more practical fare – Pasta, milk, a couple of loaves of bread, yogurt, etc. Staples, in Kyle's opinion.

Kenny takes the opportunity of having somebody to shop with to ride the shopping cart up and down the aisles. Nobody really cares, because it's Kenny. But Kyle secretly takes this behavior as encouragement that Kenny will be alright in raising a child. He'll be one of those fun dads that plays pranks on his kid and makes punny jokes all the time, probably because Wendy wouldn't let him make jokes of a dirtier variety. Considering their earlier conversation, he'll most likely end up making a bounty of poop jokes. At least children seem to find those funny. He doesn't think Wendy would see the humor, but oh well.

In celebration of having real food, when they return to Kenny's, Kyle decides to make spaghetti. He's not a particularly talented cook, but living on his own on a strict budget taught him a thing or two about pasta.

It's only just as they're sitting down to eat that the doorbells rings.

"I'll get it," Kenny mumbles, standing from his place at the table where he had only just dished himself an enormous plate of spaghetti. That guy must never eat a whole meal, holy shit.

"Whoa – uh, hey Wendy," Kyle hears Kenny say, which naturally piques his interest. He sneaks forward and peers around the corner into the foyer, where Wendy apparently has thrown her arms around Kenny's neck, and he is patting her back awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Sorry?" Kenny, of course, notices that Kyle is trying to discreetly eavesdrop, and sends him a confused look. He mouths what looks like _Did you do this?_

Kyle just shrugs, but realizes directly after that he _did_, in fact, ask Stan to try and talk some sense into her. He flips open his phone and shoots off a quick, but genuinely curious, text.

_To: Stan: Okay, you have to tell me honestly. Are you a wizard?_

Wendy pulls back a little from where she's attached herself to Kenny, but keeps her arms on him, and says, "I'm sorry for shouting about the crib. I've just been so stressed, and worried, and _fuck it. _I don't have an excuse. But I'm sorry."

He pulls her into a second hug and places his chin on top of Wendy's head, giving Kyle a subtle thumbs up. He says, "Hey, don't worry about it. We're all a little fuckin' crazy right now, I don't blame you."

_From: Stan: As far as I know, no. Never got my letter to Hogwarts. Why?_

_To: Stan: Lol okay, if you're sure. Wendy came over and told him sorry. Wtf did you do?_

Kyle can't hear what Wendy and Kenny are saying to each other anymore. Kenny has his eyes closed and his lips in her hair, and he's whispering _something,_ but he knows Kyle's listening, so this must be private. This isn't the first time that he's seen Kenny be more affectionate than usual with her. He think that Kenny just has an inner sensor when it comes to people – he can tell when it's not okay to touch them, or when it's okay to keep them in what typically would be a far too intimate hug.

Sadly, Kyle manages to ruin the moment without even trying.

Wendy turns her head where it rests on Kenny's chest, and catches him looking at the two of them. "Kyle Broflovski!" she chides, "Have you been standing there this entire time?"

"No," he lies, rather smoothly.

Kenny rolls his eyes, and Wendy pulls out of the embrace.

"You, uh, wanna stay for dinner, Wendy?" offers Kyle, hoping to distract her, "I made spaghetti. It might get cold if you two just, uh, stand there. Um." He breathes a sigh of inner relief that he caught himself before he uttered the words 'if you two stand there giving each other bedroom eyes,' which they were. Kyle has a feeling that this is a couch and television night for him.

"Sure," she says cheerily. Kyle retreats into the kitchen and grabs another place setting for her. Kenny doesn't actually own any matching dishes or silverware. When Kyle first asked about it, he said that he bought a set, but ended up giving it to his folks and took their old dishes – mismatched items from donations, scratched up Tupperware, but mostly those Hercules plates that were given out at McDonald's in the nineties. The one he gets for Wendy has the Muses on it, and the silverware looks distinctly as though it was pilfered from the Olive Garden.

Dinner is painfully awkward for Kyle. Wendy and Kenny strike up a discussion on her next doctor's appointment in a couple of weeks – the one where they'll be able to find out what sex the baby is. Wendy doesn't want to know, but Kenny does. However, they're not arguing, and maybe that's what makes this all so damned uncomfortable. Kyle also thinks that Kenny's hand might be on Wendy's knee, and he _also_ thinks that said hand might be sliding a little further up.

Kyle's phone rings.

He cannot describe his relief at receiving this perfectly timed phone call from fucking heaven. He gives a silent thank you to the universe, says gruffly, "I've gotta take this," and makes a beeline for the front door.

On Kenny's porch, he spares a glance at the caller ID. It's Stan. Kyle doesn't notice the small smile that sneaks up onto his face as he answers, "Hey dude, what's up?"

"_Kyle, can you come over?"_ Stan asks. His voice sounds a little off, like he's been crying…or drinking. Kyle doesn't understand. He thought that everything between them was good, even if it had only been a couple days of ridiculous happiness. Why would Stan need to drink? Okay. Okay. Kyle's not stupid. He's knows very well that an alcoholic doesn't just _stop_ being an alcoholic, but surely there must be a reason that Stan is boozing?

Kyle checks the watch fastened around his wrist. It's not too late. Approaching nine o'clock. He says, "Uh, sure man. I'll be over in a few."

Because, let's be honest, Kyle would much rather deal with an inebriated Stanley Marsh than the frighteningly loud sexual shenanigans of Kenny McCormick.

"_See you. Thanks dude."_

Kyle hangs up and slips back into the house. He clears his throat to interrupt the 'moment' before him – involving, from what he can see, bedroom eyes. And probably dirty talk, which he wants nothing to with. He almost _sort of_ regrets telling Stan to convince Wendy to reconcile with Kenny, but realizes that he'd rather deal with an amorous McCormick than a morose one.

"I'm gonna go over to Stan's," Kyle says.

"Cool," says Kenny, and because Wendy isn't looking, he mouths to Kyle '_thank you' _and makes a rude gesture to indicate getting laid. Whether Kenny is talking about himself or insinuating that Kyle is going to have sex with Stan, he can't be certain.

"Can I take the truck?" he asks.

Kenny considers it for a moment. The guy is fucking paranoid as shit when he comes to that vehicle. But he reluctantly consents with a, "Remember what will happen to you if anything happens to her. Pike, Kyle. It applies to any sort of baby of mine, trucks _or_ fetuses."

"I missed something," Wendy says, rolling her eyes, as if to say 'oh, boys.'

Kyle rolls his eyes right back when Kenny puts his arm around Wendy and says smoothly, "You are so smart, sweetheart."

He nicks Kenny's flip flops again and takes his toothbrush, just in case he ends up staying the night. Which Kyle would actually like to do, because he does not want to be around for whatever the Kenny-Wendy bedroom eyes lead to.

Kyle is at Stan's within minutes, parking the truck neatly beside the curb. Stan answers the door before Kyle can even knock, yanking him inside, slamming the door behind them, and tugging him into a forceful kiss all in one swift movement. Kyle makes an _mmph_ noise of protest, pushing his hands against Stan's chest. The sour taste of alcohol invades Kyle's mouth.

Stan finally detaches their lips when Kyle delivers a punch to Stan's shoulder. Stan looks really confused, that drunk, _what am I even doing I can't tell_ kind of confused. He says, "Did I do something wrong?"

Kyle closes his eyes for a brief moment and inhales slowly. He asks, "How much have you had to drink?"

Stan scratches the back of his neck, look of befuddlement furthering, "Uh, I dunno. Not much."

"You are a _terrible_ liar when you're drunk," Kyle says quietly. He moves past Stan where some game is on pause on the television screen. The only incriminating evidence to be found is an empty scotch bottle and equally empty glass beside it, and the Chinese food sitting open on the coffee table – which is currently be dined on by all three dogs. Kyle gets growled at by the pug when he takes the boxes away and dumps them into the trashcan. You'd think by the way Stan's dogs were acting that he'd taken their legs, Jesus.

Stan, meanwhile, follows Kyle around as if he is one of his dogs (minus being on all fours). He says, "Please kiss me."

Kyle sighs and closes the trashcan lid. He smooths out Stan's hair and presses a kiss to his cheek, saying gently, "That's as far as this is going tonight. I'm sorry. But I don't do anything with people that aren't sober."

"Why not?" Stan whines.

"Because," Kyle supplies, "You don't know what you're doing. And I don't know if you'd do it sober. So I won't take advantage. You're a wreck, dude. Exactly how much City Wok did you spill on yourself?"

"Er, I dunno," Stan answers, slurring slightly, "My dogs ate it."

"You spilled Chinese food on yourself," states Kyle, "And you let your dogs eat it off of you? That is disgusting, dude."

Stan looks upset. He says childishly, "You don't have to be so _mean_."

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up," Kyle says. He claps Stan on the back and guides him toward the stairs, turning only for a moment to cast a glare at the dogs, who all look like they're about to wreak havoc, and commands, "_Stay_."

Kyle helps Stan stumble up the stairs, which is difficult. Stan has more bulk to him than Kyle does, and he's plastered as hell.

"Can you get your pajamas on?" Kyle asks.

"I'm not retarded," Stan spits back. Christ, he's so _moody_ when he's drunk. Kyle remembers how poorly things like this went in high school, too. Except back then, it was even more of a struggle, because Kyle had to get Stan to somebody's house where it wouldn't be observed that he was screamingly off-his-ass fucked up. Stan always made that more complicated, with his ranting and occasional crying – but general loudness.

"I know, I know," Kyle mumbles, "I just wanted to know if you needed my help."

"You just wanna get me naked," Stan accuses, though in his drunken haze he sounds more than willing to allow that to happen.

Kyle shakes his head and says, "Eventually, yeah. Not tonight, though. Not tonight."

"Why not?" Stan asks, just like he asked earlier. Before Kyle has a chance to answer that question, though, Stan blanches, and rushes past Kyle, into the bathroom.

Stan makes it to the sink in time to vomit everywhere.

Kyle comes up behind him and holds his hair back so that he can throw up again. In the process of pulling it back, Stan coughs up another round of vomit, splashing Kyle's hand. Kyle holds back the disgusted noise in his throat and compensates by making a grossed-out face. Kyle forces himself to calmly say, "Alright. After you let it all out, you're gonna brush your teeth, drink a glass of water, and get to bed. Okay?"

"What about my dogs?" Stan coughs bile into the sink.

Kyle pats his shoulder and says, "I'll take care of them."

"Promise?" Stan moans, and clutches his stomach.

"I promise," Kyle soothes.

Kyle helps Stan wash the vomit down the drain, and scrubs at his hands desperately with the cheap soap Stan has set up beside the sink. He hates the smell of Softsoap, but figures he'll just deal with it. And he'll clean up the remains of it after he gets Stan to bed. When Kyle left Kenny's, he was not expecting that he would be cleaning up barf instead of listening to people have sex. It seems his night would have been fucked either way, but he's silently glad that he decided to come here so that Stan didn't trip all over himself and end up on the floor or something.

He has to guide Stan's hand to help him brush his teeth the right way, but after a few hopeless attempts and toothpaste smeared across Stan's face, he gives up. He wipes Stan's face off with a damp washcloth, makes him drink a glass of water from the bathroom tap, and helps Stan strip down to his boxers before tucking him into bed.

"Kyle?" Stan says, when Kyle is about to exit and ensure that Stan's pack hasn't found a way to get into the trashcan and seize the City Wok remains again.

Kyle pauses, "Yeah?"

"Will you sleep with me?"

It takes a moment for Kyle to realize that Stan's talking about literally sleeping, and not sex. He says, "Okay. I'm just gonna check on the dogs."

"Kay," Stan says softly.

Downstairs, Kyle locks the front and back doors and switches off the lights. Stan must run a huge fucking electricity bill if he does this as much as Kyle thinks he does. The three dogs look sad where they're sitting in their doggy bed corner. He scratches Daisy behind her ears and says, "You three had better behave yourselves. Got that?" He is met with what he interprets as two looks of understanding (Daisy and Lucy) and one look of hopeless, but adorable, stupidity (Thor).

Stan is already passed out for the night when Kyle returns upstairs. He rids himself of his cargo shorts, folding them neatly and placing them off to the side, before slipping under the comforter and sliding in close next to Stan.

Stan isn't actually as asleep as Kyle originally thought. When he touches Stan's bare back lightly, Stan turns to face him. Through heavy-lidded eyes, Stan stares, and then wraps his arms around Kyle, nuzzling his nose into his curly mess of hair. He mumbles, "Kyle, you're my super best friend."

Kyle knows that Stan is drunk and that's why he's saying that, but it doesn't stop his chest from feeling heavy and full. He's wanted things to be okay between them again for so long. He's wanted to hear those words for so long. Kyle presses into Stan's embrace, even though his body is warm and smells like City Wok, and the heat of the summer night makes them stick together. He murmurs into Stan's chest, "You're my super best friend, too."

"Mean it?" Stan slurs sleepily.

"I will always mean that," Kyle says. He doesn't think that Stan will recall this conversation taking place, but he could not have made a more honest statement. Stan, even when they did not speak in high school, even when neither of them were a part of the other's life anymore, will always be Kyle's super best friend. He didn't ever actually stop thinking of Stan that way. Maybe that's why Stan didn't think he could tell Kyle how much he cared. Kyle doesn't know. He isn't good at analyzing these situations. All he knows is that he's happy here, tucked into the chest of his super best friend, even if at the moment that particular super best friend is drunk off his ass and reeks of Chinese food.

Kyle kisses Stan's neck gingerly and says, "Goodnight."

"Night," Stan whispers in that we're-at-a-sleepover-and-we-have-to-be-quiet whisper.

**o.o.o.o**

The following morning, Kyle wakes when the mattress jostles. He's disoriented at first, thinking that Kenny is being a dick and jumping on his bed or something to wake him up. But when he opens his eyes, he isn't at Kenny's. He's in Stan's bedroom. And he can't breathe.

Because there is a giant dog on his chest.

"Good morning, Daisy," Kyle wheezes.

There's a soft laugh beside him, and Kyle turns. Stan is sitting on the edge of the mattress in his boxers, holding a mug of coffee, and smiling. He looks exhausted, but Kyle guesses that Stan is most likely very used to being as hungover as he surely must be. Stan remarks, "She likes you."

"You think?" Kyle asks, petting her, since she's made his body into a bed.

"Yeah, she doesn't actually take to people that often. She doesn't trust them," Stan explains, "She bit Kenny, once. You must have done something awesome to get on her good side." As if in agreement, Daisy delivers a lick to Kyle's face.

"Daisy, out," Stan commands, snapping his fingers. The weight on Kyle's chest instantly lifts, and the mastiff leaps from Stan's bed. If Kyle didn't know better, he'd think that she gave him some serious side-eye before exiting the bedroom.

Stan sets his coffee down on his bedside table and slithers back into the bed, pulling the covers over him. He doesn't get too close to Kyle, though. Instead, he says, "I want to thank you."

"For what?"

"For, uh…" Stan searches for the right way to say it, "not having your way with me last night."

"Not that I'd ever sleep with somebody that wasn't in their right mind, but you are a _slut_ when you're drunk, dude," Kyle says.

Stan scoffs and shoves Kyle.

Kyle falls off of the edge of the mattress and onto the floor, taking the blankets with him.

Stan pokes his head over the edge of the bed, grinning, and responds, "I know," but his grin fades when he adds, "I'm sorry."

"Why?" queries Kyle.

"For drunk-dialing you, trying to fuck you and then throwing up on you," Stan says.

"You threw up on my hand. It wasn't that bad," Kyle says.

Stan gives Kyle a look and asks, "Who are you and what have you done with my super best friend? You know, the one that hates body fluids of any kind?"

"Okay, it was fucking nasty," admits Kyle.

Stan chuckles. He lowers himself off of the bed and on top of Kyle, hands braced on either side of Kyle's head. He says, "That's more like it," and kisses him on the lips.

Kyle feels like he should bring up how drunk Stan was last night, how much of a bad way he was in, how he shouldn't have done that and how Stan should get better. But then, he feels like it isn't his place. He watched Stan destroy himself for eight years, and now Kyle thinks that Stan would probably be pissed if he played responsible and concerned friend all of the sudden.

That, and he doesn't want to ruin this moment. It's one of the nicer moments that he's ever had, tangled in blankets with Stan on top of him, smiling his boyish grin. Kyle pries one of his hands out of where it's tangled in Stan's comforter, and runs it through Stan's hair. He tugs Stan down and they kiss again, pressing tongues together eagerly.

When they break apart, breathing heavily, Stan rests his forehead on top of Kyle's, kissing his nose affectionately.

"And a good morning to you, too," Kyle says.

They both laugh.

**o.o.o.o**

**Why, hello there! Thank you, as always, to these grand and probably damned good-looking people: conversefreak3, kath, effingbirds, Magical Reality, Mallory, KirstenTheDestroyer, Porn Mercenary, Miroir Twin, NightmareMyLove, ObanesHarvest, MariePierre, Crazy88inator, glow vomit, TheAwesome15, blah (Unless you are Kath again? Oh well, then you get two thank yous. If not, thank you then, blah), WxTxR, MetrionZinthos, and VannaUsagi13. **

****TW: Discussion of rape**

**Okay. I want to briefly discuss something here because it's come up a couple of times. I will not write sex in which one party is not sober. I've seen this sometimes on this website, and it seems like it's not explained very well that doing that is rape. If somebody isn't coherent enough to tell you no, then it's not a yes, either. **

**Aaaand I don't write noncon between the main characters. I did once write about rape, but I want to make it clear that when I do write about rape, it will be KNOWN that that is what you are reading. **

**The more you know!**

**Love you guys. **


	10. A More Perfect Fall

**Chapter Track: Be Still My Heart - The Postal Service**

Stan can entirely neglect his mild hangover when he's like this.

And by 'like this,' he really means 'on top of Kyle.'

Kyle doesn't say anything as he lets Stan run his hands over his red hair. Stan doubts that he'll ever get tired of doing it. Over the years, he's thought a lot about this red hair, and therefore, his newly earned right to touch it as much as he'd like is fucking fantastic.

He feels so _full. _It's a scary feeling and he isn't certain that he actually likes it that much. Right now, however, nothing could feel better. He doesn't know how to describe the wonderful emotions that take him over when he's with Kyle, but he feels so happy that it hurts.

Or that could be his hangover, whatever.

Stan leans down and kisses Kyle's neck, breathing in his scent. Kyle kind of smells like Kenny's place (it's not bad smell, just a distinct one) and like himself (which admittedly turns Stan on, it's something about the shampoo or body wash that he uses that just smells _Kyle-ish_), and a little bit like Stan. He likes that Kyle smells a little like his bed.

"Did you mean what you said last night?" Stan finds himself asking. Someplace in there his memories are a little vague, but he remembers most of it. What he remembers best is what Kyle said just before they fell asleep, about still being super best friends. That they always were. Stan understands that. Even during the torturous stretch of time in which they weren't speaking to each other, he still considered Kyle his best friend. Maybe that's pathetic. In truth, he had been all alone and without anybody, but he couldn't stop his brain from labeling Kyle Broflovski as 'super best friend.'

"Which part?" asks Kyle.

Stan feels his heart skip a beat, and he's suddenly nervous. He clears his throat and says softly, "About us being super best friends."

Kyle blushes as though he didn't think that Stan would remember him saying that, and responds, "Dude, of course I meant it. Just because you were drunk doesn't mean I'd lie to you."

"I was just checking," Stan defends, and he ducks down to swallow Kyle's next retort in a heavy, happy kiss.

Kyle makes that noise he loves, the one that comes from his throat and sounds like this helpless, needy thing that he can't stop from voicing. So far it's been that noise that Stan finds turns him on the most – not that it's hard to get horny as fuck around this guy. He's always had a crush on Kyle, but when Kyle came back from Dartmouth all lean and sharp-eyed with his well-styled clothing and I-know-what-I'm-doing attitude, Stan swears that he fell in love with him all over again.

Kyle's eyes are closed as they kiss, but Stan opts to be possibly creepy and keep his open, just so he can see what Kyle looks like. He tears their lips apart to press damp kisses along Kyle's jaw, which is covered in short, red stubble. Kyle definitely couldn't have grown that in high school. And, as everything with Kyle seems to do, it simply makes Stan find him more attractive. He wonders if Kyle can feel his hard-on through the layers of blankets separating them, and finds that he doesn't care. He wants Kyle to know how he makes him feel. At least, how he feels on the surface. Stan is incredible comfortable with letting Kyle know that he makes him randy as fuck, but he's maybe less comfortable letting Kyle in on the fact that he loves him more than he can put into words.

Stan wipes that thought from his mind by tugging down the collar of Kyle's t-shirt, just a little, so that he can kiss his collarbone.

Kyle makes that helpless noise again, a little more desperate this time.

That's where Stan loses it. He tears the comforter out from between them and crushes Kyle's body against his own. It seems Kyle has the same idea – he wraps his legs around Stan's waist and he feels Kyle's erection brush against his own. He gives a grunt of pleasure and nuzzles the side of Kyle's throat, stopping to suck gently. He loves giving Kyle hickeys – possibly because he might just want to send a message to Kenny about how it's going between the two of them.

"Fuck, Stan," Kyle mumbles, when Stan thrusts slightly forward against the body below his, brushing their cocks together through the fabric of their boxers.

Stan presses a chaste kiss to Kyle's lips and tugs Kyle's t-shirt off.

Morning sex would be convenient, seeing as they both are already mostly undressed. Less work to be done.

Kyle blushes when his shirt is flung across the room. He reaches up as Stan begins a trail of kisses downward, pushing Stan slightly back. He says, "Can I, uh, put that back on?"

Stan gives him a look, because now he's sincerely confused. Unless he's mistaken, there is one _hell_ of a boner pressing up against Stan. He asks, "Why? I thought we –"

"Um, it's not that I – not that – um, fuck. This is hard to explain," Kyle curses, face reddening more. He takes a breath and says, "No, I mean, fuck. I'm really fucking turned on right now. I'm just…uh, self-conscious about my…looks?" Kyle says the last bit in the tone of question, as though he's asking Stan if it's okay to have precarious self-esteem.

"Are you on crack?" Stan inquires incredulously, "I don't know what you think you look like, but I think you're fucking _hot._" He pauses, then, realizing that he doesn't want Kyle to be uncomfortable, and offers, "But if you really want, you can put it back on."

Kyle quirks a brow, "You think I'm 'hot'?" He looks like he doesn't believe a damned word that just came out of Stan's mouth, and Stan frankly has no idea how he could convey that his words are some of the most honest words that have ever come out of his mouth.

"Yes," states Stan.

"I'm all…pale, though," Kyle protests.

"So?" Stan says.

"I have a mole," complains Kyle.

"You do? Where?" Stan breaks his gaze from Kyle's muddy green-brown eyes and sweeps his eyes over Kyle's smooth chest, finding the little brown spot right beside where a trail of red-blond hair sweeps into the elastic waistband of Kyle's boxers.

So, Stan naturally does what first comes to mind – he runs his tongue over it.

Kyle gasps, "Dude!"

"What? Not okay?" Stan looks up questioningly.

If possible, Kyle goes _even redder_ in the face and mumbles, "No, um, I mean, I liked it. _Fuck_, I'm so awkward."

Stan chuckles, "At least you're making me look like I'm actually cool."

Kyle rolls eyes. Stan thumbs the waistband of Kyle's underwear and asks, "Is it okay if I take these off? Do you still want your shirt?"

"I think I'm okay," Kyle concedes.

Stan grins. He leans up and kisses Kyle, gently, at first, because he seems a little anxious about being naked. Stan won't pretend to understand. He thinks Kyle is fucking gorgeous. With one hand, he works the boxers down, freeing Kyle's erection. Kyle kicks them down the rest of the way.

Stan takes a moment just to kiss Kyle. He puts as much feeling as he can into that kiss – every feeling he's had in the past eight years, good and bad. It's as if he's trying to empty out his heart through their linked mouths. Instead, his heart just fills more and more, until Stan feels like he's going to explode. He rips his lips from Kyle and presses them to his forehead, mumbling, "Shit. Are we gonna…?"

"Yeah," breathes Kyle.

There's a strange look in Kyle's eyes, a look that conveys the same anxious swirl of feelings in Stan's gut. So they both feel it. They're almost electric, those emotions. There's so much. Have they both been feeling like this the entire time? Stan has spent all this time believing that Kyle forgot him, but he wonders now if that wasn't the case at all. He's confused and torn, scared and happy.

And because they know each other so well, that is the exact moment that Kyle props himself up on his elbows and kisses him gingerly. He murmurs, with his lips hot against Stan's ear, "I know. I feel it too," and Kyle lifts up Stan's hand and places it against chest. Against Stan's palm, Kyle's heart beats at what seems like a million miles per minute. Kyle goes on quietly, "I get it. It's like, this wouldn't just be sex, you know?"

"Mmm," Stan expresses his agreement. He scoops Kyle up off of the floor (carpet burn just doesn't make for comfortable fucking. He would know).

Kyle laughs a little when Stan heaves him up onto the mattress and he bounces on the springs.

Stan pushes down his boxers, throwing them carelessly. He has one knee on the bed, and –

There's a whine at his door, and the sound of paws scratching.

Kyle says, "You have got to be kidding me."

Stan sighs and says, "He's not just gonna go away. Let me put him in his crate."

Admittedly, it would probably be a hilarious sight to an outsider: Stan opens the door to his bedroom and Thor comes bounding in, tongue lolling and curly tail wagging, as if to say 'Pay attention to me, pay attention to me.'

"Hey!" Stan snips, as the pug leaps up onto the bed and stumbles over to sniff at Kyle. Stan snatches the pug before he has the chance and scolds, "Dude. You have the _worst_ timing," before exiting the room stark naked, with a panting, fat pug in his arms. He hears Kyle snort on his way out.

When Stan returns, the first thing that he can blurt is, "I am _so_ sorry."

Kyle just smiles at him and says, "It's actually kind of funny. Don't worry about it."

Stan slides onto the bed. The mood is a little lost, but he'll bring it back. He lies against Kyle, pressing their bodies close, and kisses him deeply, and reaching down to correct Kyle's unfortunately half-wilted erection. He runs his hand along the length up and down, thumbing the slit. Kyle moans quietly into the crook of Stan's neck. He teases, however, "Are you sure your other dogs aren't going to interrupt?"

Stan chuckles and says, "No, my ladies have manners. Thor is just kind of dumb. Now shut up, I'm trying to seduce you."

Kyle is about to do the opposite – meaning, _not_ shutting up, instead coming out with another snarky comment – but Stan silences him with another long kiss, pulling him as close as they can force their bodies together. Stan wants to be closer, so much closer. He feels as though he cannot possibly get near enough to Kyle. He feels insatiable.

Kyle pulls away from the kiss first this time. He runs his tongue from Stan's ear to the base of his throat and nibbles near his shoulder. Stan groans, involuntarily thrusting his body forward, rubbing up against Kyle. Kyle thrusts back. They roll up against each other accordingly, bucking up in a harried rhythm, limbs tangled. Stan curls his fists in Kyle's hair and tugs a little. Kyle cries out – but not in pain, and grips Stan's hips so hard that his fingernails bite into his flesh.

"Stan," Kyle pants, his voice a high whine of desire, "I need you."

"I –" Stan cuts off, and pulls away from their embrace, just for a moment, "I don't have any lube – I have lotion."

"That's fine, just do it," Kyle says impatiently.

Stan locates the lotion with a little squeeze of inner triumph. He doesn't even know why he has it, just that he remembered finding it when he was looking for pain meds during one hangover or another. He squeezes a generous dollop onto his fingers, wraps his free around the back of Kyle's head to draw him in for another hard kiss, and slides a single finger inside him. Kyle makes that noise, that fucking wonderful noise, and Stan kisses him harder, biting down on Kyle's lower lip. Kyle attacks the kiss back with equal force, and rubs himself back against Stan's hand.

"Deeper," Kyle murmurs against Stan's lips.

The request goes straight to Stan's dick. He groans hoarsely and complies, pressing a second finger inside of Kyle. He massages inside him, maybe more gentle than he needs to be. It's just that Stan has only done this a handful of times, and the last thing that he wants to do is hurt his super best friend with benefits, or whatever they're calling themselves now.

He is, however, smug as fuck when he locates Kyle's prostate and brushes his fingers up against it. Kyle cries, "Oh, shit," and bucks forward into Stan. Stan can't help but release a breathless little chuckle as pushes against those nerves a second time.

He adds a third finger. The fit is a little tight, and Kyle is a little tense when he does it, so Stan lowers his lips to the line of Kyle's hair and reassures him, "If you want me to stop, tell me."

Instead of speaking, Kyle bites Stan's neck. He takes that as a sign that they're both in the clear.

Stan withdraws his hand, only to be met with a moan of protest from the man in his arms. He leans down and kisses Kyle, saying, "Shhh."

Stan coaxes a little more lotion out of its container and coats his cock. It's cold, and a shiver goes down his spine at the contact. Kyle turns onto his stomach when Stan looms close again, and he whispers into the redhead's ear, "Ready?"

"Mm, please," Kyle says against the pillow.

Stan delivers a final kiss to Kyle's shoulder blade before positioning himself carefully. He presses in inch by inch, tortuously slow for the both of them, until Kyle glares over his shoulder and says, "Will you _go already_?"

Stan thrusts in smoothly.

"Ungh, fuck," Kyle expresses. Stan has to admit, he's turned on by all the noises and curses that Kyle makes. Somehow, he's always known that Kyle wouldn't be quiet in bed, but he what he didn't imagine is that it would get him off.

"Y'alright?" Stan leans over him and kisses his ear, pulling the lobe into his mouth and sucking lightly.

"Yes, Stan, will you just fuck me, please?"

Stan tries not to laugh, but he genuinely enjoys sex that he can laugh during. Like, it's not like he's laughing at his partner, more that he's laughing from being so happy – and laughing because Kyle's so damned surly, even when he's being fucked. He withdraws almost all the way, and surges back in. Kyle moans contentedly.

They begin to move in a quick rhythm. Stan can't really find Kyle's sweet spot without his fingers, which is a little embarrassing to him, but Kyle is apparently adept at angling himself back at the exact position he needs to be in. Kyle shouts and whines with every thrust and Stan can't get enough of it. He loves that he can make him feel this way, he loves that he can bring Kyle down to a wobbling mass of pleasured noises. And fuck, above all, Stan is so happy that he can't believe this is actually happening. He doesn't even bother trying to remember all the times he's fantasized about it, he just knows that this is better than any spank bank conjuration, because it's fucking real. Kyle is hot and tight around him, he swears he's never felt anything better in the world.

Stan feels the build of friction and lowers his torso to press against Kyle's back, so he has easier access to Kyle's cock. He wraps his fingers around him and pumps in tune with their own rhythm. Kyle is gasping. His short yells aren't even coherent anymore – they've been reduced from shouting Stan's names and instructions like 'there' or 'harder' to mere needy sounds.

"I'm gonna –" Stan warns, but he's cut off by his own culmination. Kyle follows moments after, his come spilling over Stan's fingers and Kyle's chest.

They collapse together.

Stan manages the energy to pull Kyle to rest his back against Stan's torso.

_I love you_, he thinks to say, but he knows better than to say it. Instead he let out a shaky, "Fuckin' a, Kyle."

Kyle chuckles, "Fuckin' a, indeed."

"Indeed?" mocks Stan.

"Shut up," Kyle playfully says, elbowing Stan in the stomach.

They're silent for a few moments after that. They just lie in bed blithely spooning each other. Stan takes advantage of the after-sex moment of affection to cuddle closer, burying his nose in Kyle's curls and wrapping their bare legs together.

However, he can't help but whisper a quiet, teasing, "So, the carpet matches the drapes, eh?" into Kyle's ear.

Kyle turns around to glare at Stan over his shoulder and says sarcastically, "How romantic of you to say so."

Stan flips Kyle onto his back and positions himself so that he has one leg on either side of him. He kisses Kyle's head, his nose, his ears, his lips, his jaw, before saying, "You're wonderful, okay? Is that a little more romantic for you?"

"It'll do," Kyle says, pushing himself up to reward Stan with a lingering kiss.

They stay in Stan's bed for a few minutes longer, exchanging kisses and quiet conversation, but Kyle's not very good at sitting still. They end up getting dressed leisurely, throwing clothes at each other and laughing. Kyle borrows a fresh set of clothes from Stan. He has to use a belt to keep Stan's shorts from falling off of his skinny waist, but overall, they're not too far apart in size.

Stan checks his clock and comments, "Holy shit, dude, it's already past noon."

Kyle stretches, unconcerned about the time, and asks, "You wanna get lunch? I haven't been to Shakey's in awhile."

Stan's stomach growls in agreement with Kyle's suggestion. He comes up from behind as Kyle's slipping his shoes on and wraps his arms around waist and kissing the back of his neck. He says, "Cool. It'll be on me, okay?"

"Why?" Kyle says, casting Stan a look of suspicion. They wander downstairs, where the dogs immediately bark in relief (Stan supposes they were making quite a bit of noise upstairs, and he's actually rather touched by the concern of his animals). He lets them out into the back yard and dumps the coffee out of his mug that he left to cool on his bedside table.

Stan replies, "It'll be like a super best friends with benefits date, or something."

Kyle gives him another look, and so Stan yanks him into a kiss, and says, "Don't question it, dude. Free food, okay?"

Stan brings the dogs back in to give them treats before they leave. Thor in particular is agitated about having been left downstairs (and locked up), and he paws at both Stan and Kyle as they attempt to leave for lunch, until they pay attention to him and Stan promises that he'll be back.

The moment that they step into Shakey's, Stan feels at home. It's a strange feeling, a combination of nostalgia and a happy hum low in his gut. They're greeted at the door by Craig, who's wearing a red apron and a look of tortured boredom. He says monotonously, "Welcome to Shakey's. Two?" And he gives Stan in particular a raised brow, as if to say _Don't think I don't know what's going on between you two._

Stan doubts that anybody knows, but Craig has occasionally had to be there for him. They're not friends – he wouldn't go so far as to put that label on the brand of relationship that they have. It's more like Craig has scraped him off of the bathroom floor in a bar and driven him home. Craig tends to be the only person that will listen to Stan's cynical rants while he's piss-drunk, without saying anything in return. Maybe it's a part of growing up in a small town together – even if you don't like each other, you'll have each other's backs from time to time.

"I thought Craig worked at the liquor store?" says Kyle, confused, as soon as they're seated and Craig is safely out of earshot.

"He works two jobs, so he can, you know –" Stan pauses, "You don't remember? Oh, shit, that's right. You'd just left for Dartmouth. His mom got diagnosed with breast cancer. It's why he didn't go to college, dude. He stayed here and worked at Shakey's to pick up some of the medical bills. He only started working at the liquor store when Ruby went to school so that he could help pay for that, too."

"Jesus," Kyle says, "No wonder he's such a dick."

Stan frowns, "He's not all bad."

"He actually likes my brother," remarks Kyle, "It's fucking weird."

"Your brother is a sassy little shit," Stan complains, "He used to prank call me."

Kyle lets out a bark of laugher and says, "Nu uh."

"I swear to God he did," Stan says, "He would pretend he was you sometimes. It was annoying as fuck, 'cause I'd be drunk, and I'd totally believe him. Sadly, I caught on after awhile and he cut that shit out."

"Hey guys, what'll it be?" their waitress comes up to the table. She has sleek blonde hair and looks about Ike's age – Kyle realizes after a moment that it's Flora. Last he saw, she was still fourteen and sporting a bad haircut.

"Uh, is cheese okay with you, dude?" asks Stan.

"Pepperoni and sausage isn't your favorite anymore?" inquires Kyle.

Stan smiles wistfully. The question makes him realize just how out of touch Kyle has been with him in the last years. He says, "I've been a vegetarian since I was like, sixteen, dude."

"Oh," manages Kyle, "Yeah, that's fine. Can we get mushrooms on it?"

"Mushrooms are fucking disgusting," Stan retorts.

"Okay, half cheese, half mushroom, 16-inch," Kyle says to Flora, handing over the menus that they never need – everybody in South Park is already far too familiar with the menu at Shakey's.

"I'll show you my sixteen inch –" Stan starts, but Kyle kicks him under the table before he can continue.

While they wait for food, they talk about mostly mundane things, like where Ike is planning on attending college (CU Boulder) or how Shelly is engaged to her longtime boyfriend Larry (who, Stan reports, is just as chubby as he was when Kyle last saw him, but also just as good-natured. It freaks Stan out how much the guy balances out his sister's fiery temper). Sometime in the midst of talking, they end up holding hands on the table. Kyle idly plays with Stan's fingers. He doesn't mind. He actually enjoys watching Kyle being subconsciously affectionate.

Stan feels so strange. He can't shake the fear that this super best friendship with benefits is going to die a horrible, bloody death and that Kyle will never again return to South Park. But he doesn't want to tell that to Kyle – he's too afraid that Kyle will brush off his emotions and tell Stan that he's 'being too paranoid' or something else that trivializes the awful feeling in Stan's gut.

At the same time, Stan has this rising desire to spend every waking moment with Kyle. Like, if he can keep Kyle within his reach at all times, he'll know that Kyle won't be going anywhere. That he's really sitting across from him in Shakey's Pizza, playing with his hands. That they really just had sex in Stan's townhouse.

Things never go right in Stan's life, causing him to be suspicious whenever something good happens. And this definitely qualifies as good – he's been in love with Kyle for almost nine years, actually having anything resembling romance between them is too good to be true.

But he rolls with it. He rolls with it for the sake of not sounding crazy, of not sounding like that negative person that Kyle ditched all those years ago. He just smiles and talks about shit he doesn't care about, when he'd rather be saying, _tell me that you'll stay with me so I don't feel so scared anymore. _

After pizza, they walk around town. Their hands occasionally brush together, but they don't hold onto each other. Stan wishes that they could.

Sometime later, they've ended up walking to Stark's Pond. There aren't many people around, just a couple of young teenagers that Stan vaguely recognizes but can't quite name, and a pair of older men fishing.

"It looks just like I remember," comments Kyle. They walk along the edge, obscured by the fir trees, and Kyle continues, saying, "Except for us. We look different. I wonder what we would have said if we could have looked into the future and seen ourselves now."

"Shit is fucked up," murmurs Stan, "I don't know how happy I would be, seeing my life now."

"Not our entire lives," returns Kyle, "I mean, just this." And he leans forward, just a little, and closes his lips over Stan's. Stan thinks that maybe in some other life he would care that Kyle tastes just a little like mushroom pizza, but right now, right here, he's just happy as shit that he's kissing Kyle Broflovski, and that Kyle Broflovski is kissing him, too.

When they separate, Stan says, "If all I saw was that, I think I would be the happiest kid alive." And he means it. All he wanted back then was Kyle. Not just for romance, either, but because Kyle was his super best friend. His support system. The one he called when things went wrong. Kissing Kyle is like kissing everything good in his life, everything he ever wanted and everything he didn't deserve at all.

Kyle's brows are knit. He asks, "Really? From just a kiss?"

"Dude, all I ever wanted was you," Stan says, but he quickly amends, just in case, "I mean, in high school. I thought about you non-stop." _And I've thought about you non-stop since then, too_, he thinks, but he doesn't want to creep Kyle out and scare him away. Not when he just got Kyle back.

"Fuck, why were we so dumb back then?" Kyle asks, "If we'd just talked to each other –"

Stan interrupts, "Maybe we shouldn't dwell on it, man. Maybe we should just let shit happen."

"Yeah," Kyle says, though Stan can tell he doesn't like the idea of things being out of his control. Kyle was always like that. Things needed to be in the order that he put them in. He can tell that Kyle's trying to get away from that need now, but he thinks that it isn't working very well.

So, Stan resorts to the most logical solution, which is to kiss the bewildered look off of Kyle's face.

If he could do one thing for the rest of his life, it would be this. Maybe not even the kissing part. Maybe all he would need is to hold Kyle in his arms. He think he'd be happy if that was all he could do. Unfortunately, he doesn't know if Kyle feels the same way. Actually, to be entirely honest, Stan is mostly sure that Kyle doesn't feel the same way at all. But if he can just have him for a little while…maybe he'll prove to himself that somebody incredible wants him. Maybe that means that he's an okay person, after all.

**o.o.o.o**

Stan is flattered when, at the end of the afternoon, Kyle says that he doesn't feel like heading back to Kenny's yet, and that he'd rather stay and chill with Stan – he says that the reason is that Wendy's probably still over and there is a potential fuckfest still in session, which Stan believes whole-heartedly. To himself, though, Stan pretends that Kyle really wants to spend time with him because he'd really like to.

They play on Xbox for awhile, until the dogs decide that they've had enough of Stan and Kyle having alone time, and paw at the two of them until Stan caves and takes them out into the back yard to play for a little while.

Stan pauses a game of tug-o-war with Lucy for only a second – to look at Kyle. He's wrestling around with Daisy and Thor (the latter of whom is merely latching onto the hem of the shorts Kyle borrowed from Stan and growling as ferociously as a pug can manage).

He does think that his heart could possible melt any more than it does when he sees his super best playing with his dogs. It's like…if he hadn't already secretly forgiven Kyle for the years of pain in high school, then this one thing would. It's no secret that Stan loves his dogs, but he hopes that nobody knows how deeply that goes. People aren't attractive to him if they can't play with his dogs.

Stan is surprised, actually, that Kyle will play with his dogs so easily. Kyle hates being dirty, and right now, he's covered in grime from head to toe, from rolling around with a dog that is definitely bigger than he is. Daisy could probably devour Kyle if she was so inclined – and she usually is when it comes to people that aren't Stan. Daisy hates people she doesn't know, sudden movements, unexpected or loud noises – the works. But she took to Kyle almost instantly. Is it because Kyle's taken care of him a couple of times? She's a smart dog…does she just know when there's somebody decent around? But, Daisy doesn't like Kenny, and Kenny's a good guy.

Lucy growls and tugs on the rope toy in Stan's hand, effectively getting his attention back to her.

He asks the dalmatian softly, "Do you like him too?"

She doesn't look like she knows what the flying fuck Stan is talking about. He laughs and scratches her ears, telling his dog in low tones, "I like him a lot. I'm glad you like him almost as much as I do."

When the pack tires out (Thor is the first to get bored, and the ladies follow quickly), Stan and Kyle head upstairs together. Kyle strips down out of Stan's clothes and tosses them in the hamper, which has already filled up, unfortunately – Stan is not talented at keeping himself neat. He always manages to spill his coffee or food or liquor on himself. It's why he avoids getting lighter colored clothing. Everything would be stained.

Someplace in between Stan commenting about the dirt on Kyle's face and Stan pulling off his t-shirt, they make a mutual but silent decision to indulge in a shower together.

"The water has to be…temperate," Kyle insists, awkwardly rubbing his arms. Stan wonders why Kyle is so uncomfortable with being naked. The guy has a slender, near magazine-perfect body without even trying. Yet still, he has made it clear in the space of one day and twice being nude that he hates being looked at. Which is a pity, really, because Stan _really_ enjoys looking at him.

Stan raises his brows, and Kyle explains, "I get pink under hot water."

"Why does that matter?" questions Stan, genuinely confused.

"I just – I – I don't like how it looks, okay?" stammers out Kyle.

Stan puts up his hands, "Okay, if that's what you want. But I don't know where the _fuck_ you got the idea that you're not attractive, because it is literally the stupidest idea I have heard in my entire life."

Kyle keeps quiet as Stan adjusts the water temperature, and Stan finally settles and turns on the showerhead, Kyle says, "Thanks, Stan."

Stan offers Kyle a hand and they step in together. Stan says, "I'm only stating the obvious, dude."

After that, the conversation dwindles…

…into much more interesting activities.

After shower escapades, Kyle texts Kenny to let him know that he'll be spending the night with Stan again. They're tired, and it's been a long day. A good day, but a long one. They can't manage much else but slipping underneath the covers together. Stan finds himself in a position he's not often in - he's tucked into Kyle's arms, instead of the other way around. He's not often comfortable allowing people to do that. Put their arms around him, he means. He feels too vulnerable. And now, with his head nestled against the crook of Kyle's neck, he feels even more vulnerable than he would if he was merely in the arms of a one night stand. He feels like Kyle knows his every thought, his every worry, his every stupid hope.

Stan's thinking that he wants this to last forever. He never, ever wants this to end.

He's worried because he knows it will end.

But, he still hopes that it won't.

**o.o.o.o**

**Well HOWDY. I hope you guys had fun at all those Halloween parties I'm sure happened over the weekend. I had fun at the ones I went to. :D**

**Thank you thank you thank you a billion and ten times over for my reviewers, you all are so clever and never fail to brighten my day: Kath, TheAwesome15, VannaUsagi13, NightmareMyLove, Porn Mercenary, conversefreak3, Holyclowns15, Miroir Twin, Wizerd Beards, Jules, MariePierre, lily's mom09, WxTxR, and Mallory.**

**I thought this wasn't going to go up until tomorrow, but I guess it's a Halloween present.**

**SO, HAPPY HALLOWEEN Y'ALL. **

**OH OH OH**

**And important things: I got some sick-ass amazing fanart from Porn Mercenary. I linked to these beautiful things on my profile, they are obviously under 'Put Our Pistols Down.'**

****Also important: Before you say anything, the sex was intended to be awkward as fuck. I do these things on purpose.**


	11. Couldn't See, Couldn't Stay

**Chapter Track: Raining Again – Moby **

Kyle is having trouble remembering how he got suckered into this.

Okay, no, he knows exactly how he got suckered into camping for a week. But he hates camping. Like, a lot. It's some combination of having to shit in the woods and sleep on the ground and how fucking freezing it is at night. It's not that he dislikes the outdoors. Or maybe he does. Because, actually, this started with being in the great outdoors and his desperate need to get back inside and play Xbox or something.

It began with a hike - Kenny's suggestion.

Neither he or Stan had known, but Kenny became somewhat of an outdoorsman in the past few years. Kyle didn't know because, well, he lived across the country. Stan, on the other hand, should have known. Maybe. Since he's been around in South Park this entire time. But Kyle knows how disconnected Stan has been from the rest of the world. He's witnessed it himself. The drinking, the holing himself up in his house without speaking to anybody else, generally separating himself from the rest of the world. And they don't speak about it. Kyle doesn't feel like he can, really.

He doesn't want to feel stupidly consumed with guilt for not knowing about this whole situation with Stan. But he is.

And he can't bring it up, because he was never around to pay attention to the problem in the first place.

For now, it's not an immediate issue.

Now, Kyle's immediate issue is that he's fucking freezing.

He shouldn't be. It's not that fucking cold, but somehow nighttime while camping is about ten times worse than it is when you're safely inside a normal, insulated structure, in a warm fucking bed.

"Kyle, will you just go to sleep already?" he hears a sleepy demand from across the tent. It's one of those huge five person tents, even though there are only four of them - him, Stan, Kenny and Wendy, the last of whom Kenny demanded to be present, because evidently, Wendy enjoys camping just as much as Kenny does. And Kenny is trying to embrace whatever he has in common with her to the very fullest.

"I can't, I'm cold," Kyle complains. Extra blanket aside, he's shaking like a leaf, probably because he has hardly any body fat.

Beside him, Stan rolls over and snuggles closer. He whispers, "Dude," simply, as if to say, for the love of Christ, just stop your inner complaints and go the fuck to sleep.

But it's not that fucking simple. First of all, he doesn't want to share a tent with Kenny. Kenny snores like a fucking truck. There's also the second problem of Wendy being simultaneously present. And Kenny just can't stop being as cuddly as he feels it is necessary to be around her. At least Kyle remembered to lay down some ground rules. Like, not having sex at all on this camping trip. This has been admittedly difficult from his side. Being around Stan makes him kind of randy. He feels far more randy than usual, actually. Maybe it has something to with the camping environment.

You know, all primal and shit.

Fuck, that's one of the stupider things that he's ever thought about.

Stan scoots even closer to Kyle, their sleeping bags rustling together as Stan's stomach presses against his back. His lips touch Kyle's ear, and he nuzzles the back of Kyle's neck with his nose. He says, "Does this help?"

It kind of does. No, it really does. Stan is radiating body heat. When his arms slide around Kyle, he feels about ten times more warm, even though it's just been a mere moment tucked into his arms.

"You guys are adorable," Wendy remarks from her place beside Kyle.

Well, that kills the mood.

Kyle almost forgot that he's sharing a tent with two other people, that are also all cuddly together.

How can she even see them? It's pitch fucking black, another thing that Kyle loathes about camping. He's embarrassed to admit it, but he actually slept with a night light until he was like, sixteen years old. And even now, he still prefers to sleep with a bathroom or hallway light on. When he asked to keep their electric lantern on, Kenny laughed and Wendy flat out said, 'Fuck no,' because apparently she can't sleep if any tiny bit of light is touching her. She insists that even while she's wearing one of those weird eyemask things, she can still see light out of the corner of her eye.

At least there's a little bit of moonlight streaming in through the mesh window. Unfortunately, that is coming with a frigid breeze.

Still, he feels strangely warm and a lot better with Stan pressed up against his back.

Just, not good enough to fall asleep. He tosses a little, rustling around with that fucking sleeping bag fabric rubbing up against the floor of the tent.

"Fucking hell," Wendy moans in complaint, "Kyle, go the fuck to sleep."

Kenny, meanwhile, is out cold. Snoring. Like a goddamned bear. How can she be annoyed by Kyle's tossing and turning and be fine with Kenny's ruckus?

"Here," mumbles Stan, sounding like he's mostly asleep, or that he would be, if there wasn't so much inner-tent conflict. There's a bunch of noise from Stan, who draws away from Kyle. With the little bit of moonlight coming in, Kyle can see Stan's silhouette standing up.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asks.

"Move over, asshole," Stan mutters, "I'm getting in your sleeping bag."

"There had better be no funny business," Wendy says irritably, "Kenny and I are following the rules, so you have to, too."

Stan tugs open Kyle's sleeping bag and slips in. It's a damned good thing that Kenny didn't own any of those skinny little sleeping bags - he only had the giant-ass jumbo things.

Now Stan's arms come around him fully and they tuck together tightly, fitting like two pieces of a puzzle. This is far too comfortable. Stan's bit of stubble that he's grown in the last day and a half of camping scratches the back of Kyle's neck, and it actually feels wonderful. Like everything about Stan feels wonderful.

He probably shouldn't think of that, since they're supposed to be on their best behavior and following the rules of the tent like gentlemen. Kyle whispers, "Maybe tomorrow we can -"

Stan 'mmm's and murmurs in agreement, "Yeah, but we have to wait for these two to find other things to do."

"They can go take a hike," Kyle says back, and he means that as literally as he means it figuratively. This whole thing BEGAN because of a fucking hike. He and Stan and Kenny all decided to go blaze some trails. More accurately, Kenny hiked while Kyle felt like he was dying because of the altitude and the sun, while Stan hung back to help Kyle by providing sunscreen and water, when he really could have been participating fully.

Kyle is really fucking out of shape, basically. And being like, and mile and half higher in altitude than he has been in four years doesn't help anything.

Stan starts kissing along Kyle's ear absently. It's the brand of affection that you don't really think about, you just do it. Kyle feels a little tingly at the knowledge that he and Stan are already at that point, the subconsciously cute point. They seem to have a skipped an entire era in their lives, sort of like those eight years happened...but didn't, really. That they're picking up right where they left off. And as far as Kyle is concerned, the place where it 'left off' is at that one time. Now something else is growing between them, like vines that crawl up the side of house. They're getting all tangled and meshed together, at an almost incomprehensible speed.

That's how Kyle finally falls asleep, thinking about getting tangled up with Stan emotionally, while they are quite literally tangled into each other. It's easy to fall asleep when he's next to Stan. He likes how Stan's chest rises and falls against his back in tune with the breath that comes out hot and even against the exposed skin of Kyle's neck. And, despite Kyle's definite loathing of camping, he likes that Stan smells like campfire and pine trees, and that they're falling asleep to the sound of crickets, and underneath that, dead silence.

Morning is rough. It always is when Kyle camps. Every morning sucks, because someplace in the middle of the night, the temperature swings dramatically from fucking freezing to hot as hell, and then you're covered in sweat by the time that you're up. He hates to admit it, but in addition to being all sweaty and gross, he's also feeling a little pissy about waking up alone in the tent. He hears the other three laughing and talking outside, and smells camp coffee, which makes Kyle's stomach rumble with want.

Oh, and his back hurts. From sleeping on the fucking ground.

Maybe he would be less angry about it all if he had woken up next to Stan, like he wanted.

He is never camping again, no matter how tempting it is to get out of a physical activity (like hiking, for instance).

Kyle stumbles out of the tent to be met with blaring Coloradan sun. He groans, "Fuck me, what time is it?"

Kenny checks the digital watch slapped around his wrist (in addition to the no sex in the tent rule, they established a no phone rule as well. Kenny insisted, saying that cellphones would take away from the 'experience.' Kyle just wishes he'd taken phone in spite of that rule, because he could be playing Scrabble with Ike instead of tossing pine cones into the campfire for amusement), and answers, "Shit. Like, one?"

"Dude!" exclaims Kyle, "Why didn't anybody wake me up?"

"You were out like a light, man," Stan says, "I'll make you some scrambled eggs, okay? Don't worry about it."

Kyle has a hard time being mad at Stan, so he just stays quiet, with his arms folded, and pouts.

Plus he looks like shit when he camps. And somehow, Kenny and Stan and even Wendy all look good, in that outdoorsy rugged sort of way. But, especially Stan. His hair is mussed in an almost cheesy romance-novel level way, he has on khaki cargo shorts and flips flops, and looks generally fucking good. Especially when he weilds a frying pan and and the eggs they've been keeping in a cooler in Stan's Ford and tin shakers of salt and pepper, creating some of the most delicious scrambled eggs that have ever been forged.

Seriously, Kyle has never tasted anything so good. Or maybe that's just because he woke up in the afternoon after having not participated in last night's marshmallow roast and smores assembly line (he was too busy being angry about having to shit in the woods. They brought toilet paper, sure, but there is stil something utterly undignified about popping a squat over weeds and pine needles and whatever bugs are crawling around in there).

While Kyle eats, Kenny and Wendy duck back into the tent. They emerge in swimsuits. Kyle tries to side eye Wendy's baby belly without being too obvious about it, but she catches his eye and snaps, "Yes, I have stretch marks and everything, Kyle."

"Sorry," he mutters.

But he's already been beaten to cheering her up, because Kenny wraps a loose arm around her waist and is whispering something in her ear - something that's making her smile and laugh and push him away. And she's blushing. Kyle decides that he doesn't want to know, but he suspects that it's probably something about boobs. With Kenny, that is typically a pretty safe assumption.

"We're gonna head down to the river. You guys coming?" asks Kenny, arm still curled around Wendy's waist. Not too long ago, she would push him away when he did that. They must really be in a good place with each other. Must be all the sex.

Fuck, Kyle can't stop thinking about sex. And with Stan working around camp, he looks all...manly. And well. Kyle likes men. A lot. Particularly this one, who is stoking the fire.

"I might come down later," says Stan, "I'm just gonna wait for Kyle."

"Uh...huh," says Kenny, giving them a playful wink, "We'll see you later, then."

Stan and Kyle glance at each other, and watch and Kenny and Wendy walk down the trail that winds down to the shallow section of river where swimmers hang out.

Stan snags the seat next to Kyle on one of the logs surrounding the campfire, and leans in to kiss him.

Kyle gives Stan a little push back and says, "I taste like eggs, you'd be grossed out."

Stan gives a careless shrug and says, "Whatever," before ducking back in and smothering Kyle's lips with his own. Kyle melts into the embrace and lets Stan's arms coil around him. He hums happily against Stan's mouth and parts his lips. Okay, so they do both taste a bit like camp coffee and scrambled eggs. But whatever. All Kyle can think about at this point is how he felt last night with Stan pressed up against his back, and the friction with every little shift either of them made. At least he fell asleep before he got a boner. But he's kind of getting one now.

When one of Stan's hands falls away and his hand lowers to Kyle's crotch, not having a boner is simply not an option. Kyle has discovered that Stan knows just the right way to stroke and rub and tease, and it's as delightful as it is tortorous.

"Stan," Kyle mumbles. It's a protest, but it's half-moaned, and Stan appears to just feel encouraged. He tries again, "Stan, there are kids around. Let's just go to the tent."

"There's a 'no sex in the tent' rule," Stan replies.

Kyle snips back, "There's also a 'no sex in public' _law_, you asshat."

Stan rolls his eyes but grins his boyish grin, and seizes Kyle by the waist, lifting him up and tossing him over his shoulder all Viking-style. Kyle protests, "Stan! Aghh, put me down, damn it!" But Stan keeps Kyle on his shoulder, struggling aside, and unzips the tent door, where he dumps Kyle unceremoniously onto a pile of sleeping bags and pillows.

"What if Kenny and Wendy come back?" Kyle asks. He doesn't know why he's arguing against sex, especially since they haven't slept together in two whole days and all he's been thinking about since the last time that he and Stan fucked is fucking again.

Stan shushes him and says, "For being so smart, you can be awfully fucking dumb."

Kyle gives him a blank stare.

"Dude, they went swimming to give us this opportunity," Stan says. He unzips Kyle's hoodie and discards it in the corner of the tent, where Kyle jammed his duffel bag. Stan leans down and feathers kisses along the column of Kyle's neck. He tugs off Kyle's shirt next, which is fine – Kyle sweated all over it sometime during the night and it's kind of damp and disgusting. He hates camping so fucking much, but he can tell that he's the only one that isn't enjoying himself, and so he is trying his best to keep his mouth shut.

Stan sits up, crouches and sweeps his eyes over Kyle.

"What?" Kyle says, "I'm sorry, I know, I look gross." He tosses his head to the side so that he doesn't have to look at Stan.

"Why do you keep saying shit like that?" asks Stan, and his voice isn't the same eager voice that it was a few moments ago, when he had solely sex on his mind.

Kyle feels himself turn red. He knows that he should stop with the self-degradation. He knows that that kind of talk annoys other people, no matter how true he believes it be. And it is. True, he means. Because he can literally feel the grossness on his body. He mumbles, "Uh, I dunno. Sorry. C'mere," he opens his arms and hugs Stan close, pressing a hard 'let's forget about it' kiss to his lips.

Stan pulls away and says, "Dude, no, really. I want to know. I don't get it. Do you really think you're 'gross'?" Stan puts air quotes around the word 'gross,' which annoys Kyle a little, because he doesn't simply _think_ that he is gross, he _knows_ that he is.

"I –" Kyle begins helplessly, "I'd rather not, okay? Can we just, um, _you know_, before they come back from the river?"

Stan shakes his head, "Nope. Not until you tell you me why you keep saying shit about how you look."

Kyle heaves a long sigh, feeling as though he probably doesn't have a way out of this one if he wants sex, which he most definitely does. He turns his head off to the side, because he doesn't want to look at Stan's face while he's explaining what he thinks are the possible roots of his bad self-esteem. He says, "I don't know, Stan. I try not to just sit around fucking analyzing why I hate the way I look. But I'm pretty sure it started when we were in fourth grade and the girls made that list. You know. Where I was the ugliest boy in our class."

"You weren't, though," Stan says, "The list was corrupt, or whatever. Plus we were nine. Why does that matter anymore?"

"It doesn't," says Kyle, "I said I think that's when it started. Like it was something in the back of my mind, starting then. And it got worse in middle school, because puberty sucked hardcore, and then Cartman got worse, like fucking terrible. And I was always trying to pretend it didn't matter to me, because I wanted to impress you."

Stan chuckles, but stops when Kyle sends him a glare. He asks Kyle gently, "Why in the world did you want to impress me?"

"Because I liked you," Kyle says, "I mean, I didn't really know it yet, but I knew that I kept trying to do things I thought you would think were cool or funny. And at first I just thought it was because you were my super best friend, and I dunno. I just... wanted you to like me, too."

"We were so fucking dumb," Stan mutters, "But really, dude? This is all lingering bullshit from middle school?"

"No, high school sucked worse. 'Cause I had Cartman on my back, but I _didn't_ have you. And after _that one time_, I just assumed you thought I was ugly."

Stan assumes a look of incredulousness and says, "You're fucking with me, right?"

"I wish I was," Kyle mumbles under his breath, but he then adds more loudly, "No, I'm not. I know it sounds stupid."

"So this stuff lingering from high school, then?" Stan tentatively presses.

"Not exactly," Kyle says, "I'm trying to illustrate that I've never exactly felt okay about myself. I mean, how I look. I think I'm awesome. I just don't think that I'm attractive. Now shut up, otherwise I'm not talking about anymore, because I don't want to talk about this, okay?"

Stan frowns, but nods. He smooths a hand over Kyle's slightly-greasy-from-camping hair and pushes a kiss up against his hairline, saying nothing, and looking at Kyle expectantly.

"So, I spent life up until graduation believing that I'm repulsive," Kyle says, and he can tell that Stan wants to respond, but is fighting to keep his mouth shut. He continues, "I mean, because I thought that I was the only gay kid in South Park – which I guess I definitely wasn't, but I was the only one _out_. So, uh, college was like a fresh start. I thought I'd be able to meet people like _that_," he snaps his fingers to punctuate, and goes on, "but I didn't. I'm bad at making new friends, it turns out. Like, fucking terrible. So I went to a lot of parties and got drunk a lot so I'd loosen up a bit. That's where I met my first boyfriends during my first two years of college, at parties. Those relationships did not last long."

"Okay, but – " Stan starts, but he hushes himself when Kyle glowers.

"So I stopped doing that. Partying, I mean. And I just focused on school instead. And then I got a job and my own place, but I was like, really separated from the rest of humanity. The only people I ever spoke to other than my professors were like Kenny and Ike on Skype."

Kyle hates thinking about that, how lonely he was. How badly he missed seeing his friends, but how much he didn't want to interrupt his friends' lives, so he forced himself to stay away from South Park altogether. He clears his throat, "So, it was like, really fucking fantastic to me when I met Mitchell. I was working on a paper in Starbucks, and he just…sat with me. And we started talking. And then we exchanged numbers. And then we were having sex. Like, a lot. When we finally started dating, it went really shitty really fucking fast. He wanted to know where I was all the time. If I needed some time to myself, he'd text and call me and then everybody we knew until he found me."

"Jesus," expresses Stan.

"I know. He wouldn't let me out of his sight. It finally got to the point when he refused to let me go anywhere other than work and classes. I _had_ to be with him," Kyle explains, "all the time. He told me it was because of the people he'd dated in the past, that they all cheated on him and left him. And so I felt bad for him, and rationalized it in my head as being perfectly normal. Until, uh, after work one night, I decided I was gonna get some coffee and just read alone for awhile. You know, totally normal thing. When I came home, he went berserk. He kept shouting at me, and then he goes, 'I don't give a shit about your feelings, nobody else wants you because you're an ugly sack of shit.' And I believed him, I guess."

"Aw, Kyle –" Stan starts, but Kyle glares again, warning him that the story isn't over.

So, instead of speaking, Stan presses little kisses to the base of his neck. Kyle finds it comforting, so he strokes Stan's hair while he keeps speaking, "I just got it into my head that of course nobody else could possibly want me. Nobody ever did before. And it made sense to me that it's because I'm unattractive. I was like, 'Okay, I guess I've gotta take what I can get.' And I thought that Mitchell wasn't even that bad. He just wanted to make sure that I was safe, or something like that. But you know me. I need my alone time. So I started feeling all suffocated. I started lying about having hours at work just so I could like, go to the park and just walk around or some shit."

Stan's lips move up Kyle's throat, until he settles at Kyle's ear and begins to nibble casually. Kyle feels like he should finish this sordid tale the fuck up, because he would really just like to have sex right now. All the damp kisses and biting and teasing is going straight to his cock. He feels the energy in his brain leaking away. He stammers out, "He found me out, 'cause he started opening my paychecks and looking at the hours I worked. And when I came home after he'd gone through all my crap, he hit me. I fell and hit my head on our coffee table and passed out. That's when I knew I had to leave. So I did. But I guess shit is still lingering from that time in my life, because not many people like having me around."

Stan is staring at him with huge, almost puppy-like eyes, and he says hoarsely, "I love having you around. I missed you so fucking much."

"I missed you too," Kyle says, and he means every word of that.

Stan pulls himself up off of the ground and swings his legs over Kyle. He tugs off his own shirt before lowering his mouth over Kyle's again, initiating a long, heartfelt kiss. They press together, chest to chest, even though it's already hot as all fuck with the sun streaming in from the mesh windows. It's probably around a hundred degrees, and the fact that the tent is a dark green doesn't do much to reflect the sun away from them. No, it invites heat in.

"Kyle," Stan breathes, "I love your hair," he says, and he buries a kiss at the top of Kyle's head, "I love your nose," he kisses Kyle's nose, "I love your chin." He put three kisses to the edge of Kyle's jaw.

"My chin?"

"Yes, your chin," confirms Stan, "I love your shoulders. I love your neck. I love your stomach. I love your hips." With each body part that he names, Stan places a kiss or two against it. Kyle's heart starts to hurt. He doesn't understand why anybody like Stan could possibly like him, but he's _so fucking happy_ that Stan does. Stan pulls off the sweatpants that Kyle wore to bed with practiced ease, balling them up and shoving them into Kyle's duffel.

"You know what else I love?" Stan says, staring at Kyle through hooded eyes.

"Um," Kyle manages, but he doesn't get to finish that thought, because Stan is already pulling his briefs away from his body and tossing them back with the rest of his clothes.

"This," he says, and he licks a long line up Kyle's cock, before taking the head into his mouth and ducking down.

"I – uh – oh my god. Shit. Fuck. _Stan_," Kyle says, because he can't think of coherent words, other than feeling very flattered that somebody is fond of his dick. He takes two fists of sleeping bag in his hands and gasps, arching into Stan's mouth.

Stan pulls away with a devilish smile playing on his lips. He says, "I'm gonna show you what you do to me, okay?"

Kyle likes the sound of that, but is simultaneously scared out of his wits. He's discovered that Stan has a penchant for making him feel all kinds of emotions that he'd rather not put into words, instead opting to keep quiet about them and let Stan do his thing.

Stan strips his own remaining clothes off before shuffling around in his own bag. What he retrieves is a bottle of lube – Kyle recognizes it, Stan purchased the lube quickly after they first started having sex, and they've used it a few times.

Kyle wryly queries, "You didn't ever intend to follow the 'no sex in the tent' rule, did you?"

"Nope," says Stan, "I'm not as bad as Ken, though. He has a pair of fuzzy handcuffs in his backpack. I found them when I was looking for sunscreen yesterday."

"Oh, sick," Kyle says, making a face.

"Yeah, I think we might have to 'go swimming' later to pay them back for letting us have the tent," Stan gives off a short laugh, his eyes twinkling, and squeezes a bit of lube onto his hand. Kyle spreads his legs a little in preparation, but Stan stoops down, kisses him, and murmurs, "You don't have to do that." Kyle doesn't understand what Stan is talking about at first. Of course he should spread his legs, that makes the whole damned process a lot easier.

Except that, then, Stan's hand disappears behind his back.

Oh.

_Oh._

Stan's mouth falls open slightly as he pushes his fingers into himself. He makes an involuntary noise – a little "Ah," escaping him.

"Holy shit," Kyle can't help but say, his mouth agape. Nothing has ever turned him on more than this. He watches, unable to anything other than seize his erection and pump it lazily while he watches Stan finger himself. Stan hits his own prostate – his breath catches and a groan whizzes from his throat before he can stop it.

Stan smiles, then. It's that barely crooked, boyish smile that Kyle has come to know and love. He will never stop wanting to be the one that makes that smile appear on Stan's face. Stan says, all sweaty and panting, "_This_ is what you do to me."

So Kyle repeats himself, "Holy shit."

Stan withdraws his hand with a little whine, and picks the bottle of lubrication back up off of the tent floor. He expels more out into his palm, and leans forward to slick not his own cock – but Kyle's. Kyle's eyes widen a bit and he lets slip an, "Oh." He hasn't topped in a long while. Since before Mitchell. He's not very good at it, either. But then, he wonders, as Stan scoots forward, does it still count as topping when he's not actually _on top_?

"Is this okay with you?" pants Stan, though his ass is hovering literally directly above Kyle's dick, and he may have well just asked if the sky is fucking blue.

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" asks Kyle in response, because it seems fitting, considering their current location.

Stan laughs. He takes a deep breath – Kyle watches him sort of center himself, because this is crazy, how can he trust Kyle this much? – before spreading his knees further apart, and slowly, much, much too slowly, lowering his body over Kyle's cock. Stan's eyes are closed as he takes Kyle in inch by inch, and he makes small, choked noises that rumble in his chest, his mouth still half-open, until he bites down on his lower lip, like he's in pain.

Kyle reaches for Stan's hand and folds it within his own, asking gingerly, "Have you ever, um, done this before?"

Stan laughs again. Kyle's noticed that Stan likes to laugh during sex, which is fine, it actually makes Kyle feel happy himself. And sex can be funny anyway. Kyle hates making sex into this _extremely serious and important affair_, because all sorts of things can go strangely wrong or even strangely right. Stan answers, "Uh, like, twice? But not recently."

Kyle can buy that. Stan's body is tense and tight, but they fit together like a damned glove. He gives Stan's hand a comforting squeeze. He moans, too. Quite a bit. And loudly. He hopes that the people in the campsites on either side of them are doing something else. It just feels so fucking _good_ to be surrounded by Stan's heat, sliding up into him. Kyle has never felt closer to his super best friend.

"We can –" Kyle swallows back the lump in his throat, "– take it slow. If you need that." He moves his hands, resting them on Stan's hips.

Stan nods, "Just for a second."

For a few hot moments, they breathe heavily together without moving. Stan's sweat drips down off of his brow and splashes onto Kyle's abdomen. He releases a shuddering breath, and then lifts, up, surging back down onto Kyle's shaft with a strangled cry of pleasure. Kyle digs his nails into Stan's skin, but neither of them fucking care.

Kyle lifts his body up to meet Stan's short, decisive thrusts. He realizes that Stan is trying to find the perfect angle to bounce into that sweet spot. Kyle knows when they've found it, because Stan shouts, "Jesus fucking Christ!" and smacks his body against Kyle in that exact manner again. And again. Kyle's afraid that if he moves, he might fuck up Stan's angle, so he sits back and pulls one hand away from Stan's hip to grip Stan's cock, pumping it in time with each hard thrust.

They're reduced to grunts and the sound of damp skin slapping on skin, over and over again, before Stan moans, running his hands through his hair, and spills over Kyle's fingers. He sounds exhausted from the combination of the heat and sex, but he keeps going up and down, determined, until Kyle follows suit, coming mostly on Stan's leg.

They don't move for a long time. They just stare at each other, with Stan still straddling Kyle's lap. Their eyes are hazy and their heads are heavy, and suddenly, Kyle is extremely happy that he decided to come on this camping trip. This may very well have been the best sex of his life.

At last, Stan huffs, and lets himself fall on his back beside Kyle. He says, "Wow."

"Shit," mumbles Kyle, "Wow is right."

Eventually they sit up. Kyle wipes the semen off of himself with the sweaty t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier, and he pulls on his swimsuit as Stan does the same, so they can go down to the river and give Kenny and Wendy a chance for alone time. He just hopes they don't mind that the tent already reeks to high heaven of sex and sweat and not being bathed because they're fucking camping.

Stan kisses Kyle and grins at him, unzipping the door the tent. Fresh air, at last.

"Holy _fucking shit_," Stan breathes.

"What?" Kyle asks, trying to peer around Stan's broad shoulders.

There is no question as to what the cause of Stan's alarm could possibly be.

It is a bear.

And said bear notices them right as they stick their heads out of the tent.

"Oh, shit," Kyle says, "What do we do? Oh my god. Shit."

"Kyle!" snaps Stan, which unfortunately gets the bear's attention. Stan takes a deep breath and says through gritted teeth, "You are supposed to speak calmly."

"I can't be calm, dude," Kyle replies, voice high, "It's a fucking bear!"

That's when his 'fight or flight' instinct kicks in, and Kyle definitely _does not_ want to fight a bear. So, he does what the survival instinct in his brain tells him to do – he tears his body away from their tent, and runs _like hell_ downhill, toward the river. He's heard that you should run downhill. Something about making it harder to chase you.

"Kyle, you fucking moron!" he hears, and Kyle turns his head briefly, only to see that said bear is running after him. Fuck. Holy shit.

_Oh my God. I can't outrun a bear_, he thinks, but he speeds up anyway. He's sort of tall. His legs are sort of long.

He hears Stan calling out something behind him. Kyle ignores it at first, Stan can suck it, he just needs to get the fuck out of here, get to safety. Would he be safe if he was at the river? What if he climbed a tree? But bears can climb trees, he reminds himself.

"_KYLE!"_ He hears Stan boom at the top of his lungs. He glances back again.

He should have done that. Fuck. The bear is gaining on him. Stan is chasing the bear, holding a large tree branch in his hands. Stan yells, "Climb up a tree, you fucking idiot!" But there are no trees. He's in a clearing.

Kyle's feet pound the ground. He can feel his skin getting cut up by rocks and the weeds and God only knows what else.

_Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck._

He's running through trees now. There's no fucking time to climb, he doesn't know what Stan is talking about. There's only enough time to run like hell. The bear is almost on top of him. Does it matter what kind of bear it is? He wonders. He should have paid attention when they learned about bear safety in high school. He has no idea what to do. He just keeps going – until the bear roars and swats at Kyle.

He's slammed onto his back on the path. He curls up, trying to scoot away, trying to keep running. He hates bears, holy shit. There are actually people that find these creatures cute. _Oh my god oh my GOD. _He's terrified. A horrible, tearing pain rips through his back, and he knows he's been clawed at.

Kyle hears footsteps pounding toward him, and abruptly, the shadow the bear lifts.

He dares to crane his neck after a moment.

Stan is hitting the bear with the branch. Stan must notice him looking out of the corner of his eye and says, "Stay curled up, dude!" in between panting breaths.

What happens next must be some sort of miracle. As Stan fights back with the bear, it begins to back away. He swats it with the stick, and Kyle realizes that Stan isn't trying to do any real damage to the animal, he's trying to frighten it. It cowers a little, shrinking back, and when Stan makes another lunge, the bear starts to bound away, dashing across campsites and toward the woods in the distance.

Stan drops the branch on the ground and falls to his knees beside Kyle. He says, "You _dumbass._ Why didn't you listen to me? I'm a veterinarian, for fuck's sake!"

Kyle's too scared to talk. He's still trying to process the fact that he's not actually dead. He's alive. He is _alive._ He is a survivor of a goddamn bear attack.

"Let me see your back," Stan says, voice a little more soft than before. Stan gingerly touches Kyle's stinging skin. He says, "You got lucky, dude. These are pretty shallow. Can you get up? We'll go back and I can clean you up with the first aid kit."

Then there are more feet in his vision, a pair in leather flip flops with a tattoo of Death that goes up onto a calf, beside another, more delicate-looking pair, with a chipped purple pedicure.

"Oh my god," he hears Wendy say.

"What the fuck happened?" asks Kenny, "We heard you guys shouting and – holy balls, what _did_ that?"

"A black bear," Stan is still panting heavily, but he seems to have calmed down a lot more quickly than Kyle, because Kyle is still trying to process that he lived through a bear attack, "This idiot decided that running would be a good idea."

"How did –" Wendy begins.

Kyle feels himself being lifted. Stan is heaving him up, supporting Kyle's body with his own. A second later, Kenny grabs Kyle's other side. Stan explains, "I forgot to clean up our fucking food. I'm an idiot too. We were just, uh. Distracted."

"I'm sure you were," mutters Kenny.

Kyle somehow manages to work up enough brain power to say, "Suck my dick, Kenny."

Kenny rolls his eyes, and Stan breathes a sigh of relief, "Good. Okay. You're here."

They stumble back to their campsite, which thankfully, is now bear-free. Kenny and Stan set to work on cleaning up the mess of food, some of which has been compromised by a bear feasting on it. Wendy sits beside Kyle and cleans up his back with Neosporin. She bandages him carefully, and when he doesn't speak, she massages his shoulders and tries to cheer him up. She says in a quiet tone, "We had a scare of our own." He doesn't respond, so she says, "Except, we did the scaring. Or really, Kenny did. There were these boys, you see, and they were – well, they were picking on another boy. All he did was walk up to them and stand up looking all frightening, but it was pretty funny."

Kyle can imagine that perfectly. Kenny, in all his tattooed and pierced glory, scaring the shit out of some bullies for his own amusement. Wendy must feel his body becoming less tense, because she goes on. She opens Kyle's palm and puts a smoothed-out white rock in it. She says, "We were given a rock for our troubles. Kenny had me hold onto it, but I think he's actually keeping it. It's sweet, don't you think?"

"Can we leave?" asks Kyle, suddenly.

"Of course," Wendy assures him, "We're leaving in the morning, okay? It's just that it's getting kind of dark, and we don't want to have to pack up quite yet." She sounds so fucking _soothing_. Kyle has to hand it to her, she will probably be a great mom.

His back hurts.

Today sucks.

After a sprawling silence between them ensues, Wendy pats his shoulder and says, "I'm gonna go get a jacket on. It's getting kind of cold."

It is actually getting a little chilly.

Kyle looks up at the sky. Only a couple hours ago, it was blue and dotted with happy, puffy clouds. Now it's all gray and sullen. He gets it. It's kind of how he feels. It figures that with his luck, the greatest sex of his life would be followed up by getting chased by a fucking bear. Not that he helped. He feels stupid, but he's never liked bears, and well…it just. Happened.

After Wendy changes into warmer clothes, Kyle follows her example and puts on some jeans and his zip hoodie again. Outside, Kenny is kindling the fire, and Stan has the food that had been left in its proper place in the Ford.

Kyle, as Stan is handing off said food, stumbles into Stan's arms.

"I'm sorry," he says into Stan's shoulder.

Stan ghosts a hand over Kyle's back, considerate of the hurts-like-hell but not-actually-as-bad-as-it-could-be injury, his hands finally coming to wrap around Kyle's waist. He says, "Ah, it's okay, dude. Bears are scary motherfuckers. If I hadn't known what to do, I probably would have run like hell, too." Kyle knows that Stan is lying about that, but he also can't imagine a world in which Stan doesn't know what to do with an animal. Stan just knows animals. Logically, Kyle should have listened to him. But he didn't. And now he has a bear scratch on his back. Awesome.

Stan goes on, "Stop worrying about it, okay? You're fine now. We'll have some food, go to sleep, and leave first thing in the morning."

"I am never going camping again," sulks Kyle.

"I don't blame you," Stan responds. He sounds amused.

Kyle finally breaks away when he feels Kenny and Wendy staring at them. Stan keeps a hand on Kyle's shoulder, though, and when they sit at the fire and roast corn cobs, Stan's arm lingers around Kyle's waist. He can't decide if he likes that or not. They agreed to never indulge in public displays of affection. Kyle knows he started it, though, and he knows that Wendy and Kenny already know about the nature of their relationship. So why does it feel weird? Why does this still, after all this time and intimacy, feel surreal to Kyle? He doesn't know why, but it bothers him.

A few minutes after they finish eating, it begins to rain lightly. It's not enough to do much but be irritating, but still, Kenny commands the other three go wait in the tent while he cleans up. They don't bother arguing with him (especially Kyle, who practically dives into the tent), and instead, hang out, safely dry, with the electric lantern turned on bright. They talk while the clang of pots and pans and food being put away starts up, and the patter of rain becomes louder and more persistent against the fabric of the tent. At least it's water proof. It's fucking cold, but at least they're dry.

Kyle falls asleep with his head in Stan's lap, with Stan running his fingertips over the bandages on his back.

**o.o.o.o**

A clap of thunder and a bright flash wake Kyle. He's comfortable, tucked into his sleeping bag and pressed up against Wendy, who's sleeping soundly with her eye mask on. Kenny is snoring. The rain is fucking _pouring_, now. It's coming down in torrents, and the whole tent is shaking with the force of the wind. It sounds like bullets. Hundreds of bullets hitting their tent.

And Stan is…

Where is Stan?

Kyle jerks into a sitting position in his panic, scanning the dark tent. Stan's sleeping bag is empty. He's gone. Missing. Vanished.

"Guys," Kyle says. Neither Kenny nor Wendy stir from their sleep.

"_Guys_," Kyle says a little louder.

Wendy wakes with that one. She mumbles sleepily, "Whaaat?"

"Stan is missing," Kyle whispers back urgently.

"What?" Wendy sits up and pulls her mask onto her head.

"Stan isn't here," Kyle repeats.

Wendy looks around. She asks, "Maybe he just had to go to the bathroom or something. I'm sure he's fine."

"Um, hello? It's pouring fucking buckets," Kyle argues.

"I'm sure he's fine," Wendy says, "I'm going back to sleep, Kyle. Good night." With that, she pulls her mask over her eyes and lays back down. Kyle notices, though, that she takes advantage of Kenny being asleep and wriggles underneath one of his arms. If Kyle didn't know better, he would say that the infamous Wendy Testaburger is _falling_ for Kenny.

For Kenny's sake, Kyle hopes that that is actually what is happening.

But fuck that, where the hell is Stan? He could just sit here and wait, but – damn it, Kyle doesn't like this feeling. He knows that he usually misinterprets situations, or doesn't listen when he should (see: that afternoon's bear incident), but he doesn't like this. He doesn't think that he would normally wake up and have Stan be _missing_. Stan sleeps like a fucking rock. There is nothing that will wake that man.

Kyle debates with himself for a few seconds more. In the end, he finds his body standing up of its own accord, shoving his slip-ons onto his feet, and pulling his hood up, before venturing out into the rain.

Outside, it's a full on fucking storm. Kyle is out there for maybe thirty seconds before he's soaked to the bone and shivering. He cups his hands around his mouth and calls, "Stan! Stan?" But there's no response. He tries calling louder, but nothing happens.

Where in the world could Stan have gone?

Kyle runs over the places in his mind, but all he can come up with is Wendy's theory – that Stan woke up and had to go to the bathroom. Kyle squashes through the mud and into the trees a little, toward the area that they established as the designated "crapping region." He calls out, "Stan, are you there? Dude, where are you?"

"_Kyle, is that you?_" he hears, someplace far more distant than the "crapping region."

"Yeah!" Kyle shouts over the rain. Fuck, he's so cold. He wishes that he could just be back in the tent all dry and warm and safe, away from thunderstorms and bears, and that Stan was with him. "Where are you, dude?"

"_I'm stuck_," distant-Stan says.

Kyle stumbles forward, wandering toward Stan's voice. He can hear Stan getting louder as he approaches, he's calling Kyle's name. He sounds upset. And what the hell does he mean, 'he's stuck'?'

Finally, he spots something – a flash of red. It's the puff ball on the top of Stan's knit hat, the hat that's he's had forever. Kyle dashes forward, splashing mud and rainwater all over himself.

Stan is, indeed, stuck. His foot is all tangled up in the roots of a tree, twisted at an uncomfortable looking angle.

"Holy shit, what happened?" Kyle asks. He falls to his knees beside Stan's head, and Stan looks up, hiccupping.

Oh. He's drunk.

Stan explains, "I had to – had to take a piss, okay? And I thought I saw a fox, I wanted to make sure it was okay, 'cause it's all cold out here, but it ran off and I tripped and I –" he hiccups again, "I can't get out. My ankle fucking hurts."

"Stan, what did you drink?"

"Just some shots," Stan whines, "I waited until you guys went to sleep, but I was just thinking too hard, and I got overwhelmed and – you _asshole_, will you help me already?" He wonders where Stan got the alcohol, but realizes that he probably brought the booze himself, since he had no qualms about smuggling lube with them, too. Not that Kenny would ever invade people's privacy. It's just that they all trusted each other not to bring what they said that they wouldn't.

Kyle shakes his head but scoots through the mud to where Stan's ankle is. He somehow managed to get it stuck under one tree root, but above another. He should be fairly easy to get free, but he's too drunk to do it himself. Kyle says over his shoulder, "This is probably going to hurt," because he's going to have to move Stan's foot in such a way that there's no doubt it'll aggravate what injury has already been done to it. He grips Stan's heel and tugs.

Stan makes a noise of pain and Kyle says, "I'm sorry, it's okay, I've almost got it." He yanks a final time, and Stan shouts a curse.

"Hey, it's alright," Kyle says. Stan saved him from a fucking bear today, the least he can do is be comforting. Or something. He scoots back and pulls Stan up so that his head is resting in Kyle's lap. He says, "I've got you, okay?"

Then he realizes –

Stan is crying.

Not just crying. Stan is full-on sobbing.

"Oh, shit," Kyle ducks his head back to look at Stan's foot. From the space of soaked skin that's poking out from over Stan's sock, it looks swollen, but nothing too bad.

Then Stan says, "It's not my foot. It's not my fucking foot, Kyle."

Kyle lets Stan cry into his hoodie, and wraps his arms around Stan's back. He doesn't care if Stan is drunk, something real is obviously very wrong. He rocks Stan back and forth and says tenderly, "You can tell me, Stan. You don't have to, but you can."

"I'm scared," Stan confesses, pressing his nose into Kyle's abdomen, weeping.

"What are you scared about?" Kyle inquires, trying to keep his voice calm, even if he feels anything but fucking calm.

"I can't tell you," Stan cries.

That worries Kyle even more, and he almost stops rocking Stan in his fear. He says, "That's okay. You don't have to tell me. But I'll be here if you want to tell me." He wants to know why Stan says he's scared, Kyle desperately wants to know. Because Kyle, Kyle is afraid of a lot of things. Too much dark. Camping. Gross shit. Bears, now. Fuck. But Stan, he's always thought of Stan as fearless. If Stan is afraid of something, it must literally be the worst thing in the entire universe. It must be terrifying on a whole new level.

But Stan doesn't tell Kyle why he's scared. He just keeps crying, letting them both get pummeled by the freezing rain as thunder sounds and lightning strikes, lighting up the entire sky with bright white.

"If I help you up, can you walk?" asks Kyle, when Stan's sobs are reduced to sniffles.

Stan nods, releasing his fists of Kyle's hoodie.

It takes some effort – Kyle's not exactly strong and Stan is far from sober. They slip and trip through the first few steps, but soon, with Stan mostly draped over him, Kyle starts walking them both back to the campsite. Stan is still obviously upset, and so as they walk, Kyle just starts talking. He talks about everything he loves about Stan, just like Stan started saying when they slept together earlier that day.

_I love your hair, Stan._

_I love your eyes, Stan._

_I love how you always beat me at video games, Stan._

Somewhere in his encouragement, he slips up and instead of calling Stan by his name, Kyle ends up saying "baby" instead.

_I love how you love animals, baby._

_I love the way you kiss, baby._

_I love the way you like to laugh when we have sex, baby._

This seems more effective in calming Stan down, so he keeps saying it. It doesn't seem weird, it seems totally normal. And soon enough, the tent is in sight, and Kyle knows that they're going to be okay for at least another night.

When they come crashing into the tent, Kenny and Wendy are already awake.

"We were about to come looking for you!" exclaims Wendy, and Kyle knows that she must be telling the truth, because she and Kenny are all suited up in outerwear and warm clothes. She demands, "What happened?"

"He's drunk," Kyle says, pulling off Stan's wet clothes before he bothers with his own. He doesn't give a damn about modesty at this point, only that it's cold as shit and that Stan'll get sick if he doesn't get warm soon. Kyle has no idea how long Stan was out in the rain, but he hopes, God, he hopes it wasn't too long.

Kenny tugs his orange sweatshirt off of his body and tosses it to Kyle. It smells like Kenny – like cigarette smoke and campfire and kind of like Wendy's designer perfume. He dresses Stan in a fresh set of pajamas and finishes the ensemble with that hoodie. Stan babbles drunkenly about not needing help, but he doesn't protest when Kyle tucks him into his sleeping bag. Only then does Kyle trade his own soaking clothes for fresh ones.

He didn't realize how freezing he was, he'd been too concerned about making sure that Stan would be okay. Kyle's teeth are chattering, and feels like he'll never be able to be warm again. That's how fucking cold he is. But another article of clothing is tossed at him – it's a gray sweatshirt, with NYU emblazoned across it. Wendy's sweatshirt. Kyle mutters his thanks and slips it on. It's a little too small, but it's warm from Wendy's body heat.

He slips into the same sleeping bag as Stan.

Stan isn't sleeping, he discovers. He's watching Kyle through slitted eyes. He can smell the liquor on Stan's breath now that he's close, but Kyle places a tight kiss on Stan's lips anyway.

Sleepily, Stan repeats, like they hadn't ever been out in the rain with Stan crying in Kyle's arms, "I'm scared."

Kyle doesn't give a flying fuck if Wendy and Kenny are listening in (which he knows that they are, not that eavesdropping can be avoided when you share the same damned tent), he strokes Stan's wet hair and responds in the gentlest voice he can muster, "I know, baby."

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my darling reviewers: Porn Mercenary, ObanesHarvest, Kath, lucy sinclair, conversefreak3, MariePierre, KirstenTheDestroyer, NightmareMyLove, sephyroth19, Miroir Twin, Chasing Rabbits, Mallory, lily's mom09, TheAwesome15, prettyoddrydonfan, and Feta-Fingers32. **

**From here the story will be picking up quite a bit. No more idle fun. ;D**

**Umm and I'm sorry? This chapter lacks the quality I hope it would have. If any of you guys have some con crit about what I could do to improve/fix it, remember, that's always welcome.**


	12. Blue Like Heaven Is

**Chapter Track: Opium – Marcy Playground**

****TW: Suicide**

That morning isn't pleasant. To begin with, it's bright fucking sunny. Figures that after a thunderstorm of terrifying proportions, the sky the next day would be crystal blue, without a single cloud to shield them from the light.

Stan is hungover and embarrassed. What last night felt like is difficult to explain – but as soon as the other three were all asleep, Stan found that he couldn't get to sleep himself. He knew his insomnia wasn't due to any of the reasons that Kyle has trouble sleeping when camping. Stan is okay with sleeping on the ground, and the weird flip flops in temperature, and he actually enjoys camping quite a bit. But like he said – he couldn't sleep for other reasons. It had been like one those nights when you lay in bed and just wish that you had somebody, anybody to talk to about the roiling emotions in your gut and in your head, but either you don't have anybody around that you trust with your feelings, or they're all asleep themselves.

Stan's was a combination of both. He felt the familiar rise of fear when he looked at Kyle, who fast asleep beside him. He knew that feeling all too well – I love you, but I'm so afraid that you'll leave me again.

Stan in general doesn't like letting people in on his feelings anymore. If he doesn't want to be left completely and utterly alone, then he has to keep the awful things he feels deep, deep inside himself, where only he knows about them. He can never voice them, because people don't like cynicism, they don't like sadness, they don't like fear and paranoia and all the things that plague him when everybody else goes to bed.

So he drinks. It makes hiding the darker part of himself easier, makes the world a little brighter, makes it a little easier to sleep at the end of a long day. And if hearing that the love of your life was abused by an ex-boyfriend and being attacked by a bear isn't a long day, then Stan does goddamn know what qualifies.

That's why he drank last night. None of them were awake, so he figured it didn't matter. Stan thought that he would be able to drink himself to sleep and move on. That's what he used alcohol for most of the time anyway. It was something of a lullaby. When he was in high school, he'd drunk a lot during the days, as well, but unfortunately, as an adult, he has responsibilities that require some level of sobriety.

Stan had stashed an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels in his duffel bag. It had been a last minute decision before they left for the campsite. He thinks it was a pretty rational one. How would he have been able to sleep last night, otherwise? He only drank about half of the bottle, anyhow. That was a mild boozing for him.

Still, he always regrets how much he drank when it's morning again. His ankle hurts almost as much as his head. It's awful. His only comfort is recalling Kyle – Stan doesn't remember a lot, but he does remember being held, and being called "baby."

When Stan wakes, he's tucked into Kyle's chest, but overwhelmed by smells he associates with Kenny. He realizes quickly following that he's wearing a familiar orange sweatshirt. This revelation causes him to try and piece together what, exactly, happened last night. He looks up at Kyle, who's still dead to the world. Kyle is wearing a tight-fitting NYU hoodie. Wendy's hoodie. Across the tent, Kenny is curled up around Wendy, his pajama-clad legs coming up and around hers. His head is resting on her shoulder, his arms are hooked around her, on top of her belly, and his snores sound like something close to a lawn mower.

How can she sleep when he's so loud? Christ.

And when did Kenny get Hello Kitty socks? Wait, no, Stan actually remembers that part. It was before they'd all gone to bed. Kenny cleaned up their food mess and arrived afterward in the tent completely soaked through. The only one of them that had brought spare socks was Wendy. Thus, Hello Kitty socks.

Stan lets his head fall back on the pillow that he's sharing with Kyle, and continues wondering about last night. He got drunk, he…had to take a piss? That sounds familiar. Then what?

_I'm scared._

_I know, baby._

That's the first real memory that surfaces.

Stan's heart lurches. For a horrifying moment, he's almost certain that he's going to throw up. Nausea washes over him in waves, but he breathes in deep, and holds back. Okay, no. No no no. He loves that too much, being called baby, being held, being _okay._ This is too far for him. He's too close to actually telling Kyle all of his nasty feelings and self-hatred and profound, cavernous depression ripping yawning holes inside of him.

He _can't_ tell Kyle those things. That's how he lost Kyle last time.

_I just need to be around more positive people, Stan._

For Kyle, he has to be positive. He has to be quiet about what hurts. He _can't. _He simply _cannot _speak about these horrible things inside him. He'll shut them up, he'll drink them back. He'll do whatever it takes, because that's what you do when you love somebody. You do whatever it takes to keep them happy.

Stan feels like crying again. Or drinking the rest of that Jack Daniels. Instead, he takes advantage of Kyle still being asleep, and presses his ear right up against Kyle's chest, wrapping his arms around his waist and hanging onto his super best friend like this is the last time that they'll ever see each other.

Why is Stan even awake right now? Everybody else is still asleep. The sun that's coming in from the overhead tent window is still tinted orange – it must still be sunrise. So, he pushes those horrible feelings, shoves them down, and snuggles in tighter to Kyle, kissing the little bit of neck exposed to him. It's okay. It will be okay.

When Stan wakes again, it's so the sound of flapping fabric and way-too-loud voices. He's the only one in the tent, and the only stuff in the tent is his sleeping back, his pillow, and his duffel. The tent is being shaken, and he hears Kenny's voice just outside of it, calling, "Gooood morning, Stanley Marsh. It's a beautiful day for taking down the tent, if the dickhead inside it would only wake up!"

Then he hears the distinct sound of Kenny getting slapped, and Kyle saying, "Dude. Let him sleep a little longer. He had a rough night."

"Augh," is what comes out of Stan's mouth initially.

"Nah, he's up," Kenny says from outside.

The strip of sunlight coming in from the tent's window streams directly onto his face. Kenny, as per usual, is obnoxious as fuck. Can a hungover guy get a fucking break? Apparently not around these people. Fuck.

A few moments later, Kyle crawls into the tent. He's already fully dressed, looking ridiculously good for having endured that "rough night" he spoke of mere minutes before. His clothes aren't even wrinkled. That bastard. He always looks so clean cut. To say that Stan was shocked when he heard more of Kyle's struggle with self-esteem is an understatement of epic proportions. There is literally _nothing_ that Kyle should be self-conscious about. He's a shade on the pale side, but Stan likes that. And fuck, his fucking attractive face. It's actually a nice thing to see first thing in the hungover morning, with his unshaven jaw, his muddy-green eyes, and his sympathetic half-smile.

Kyle holds out a water bottle and a couple aspirin.

"Thought you might need this," he says.

Stan hoarsely says, "Bless you, Kyle Broflovski."

He takes the pills and chugs back water, before wiping his mouth and handing the bottle back to Kyle.

Stan sighs and sits for a moment, striving to get used to be woken before he was ready. He pulls Kenny's hoodie up off of his body. It's already hot as fuck, and he suspects that they're not very far into the day.

"Hey Stan?" Kyle says, sitting cross-legged at the foot of Stan's sleeping bag while he fishes around in his duffel for a clean set of clothes.

"Mm?" Stan responds. He discards his shirt and bottoms unabashedly. He can't a help a secret little smile when he sees Kyle's nail marks still in his hips.

Kyle hesitates for a moment. Stan glances back at him while he slips a new shirt over his head. Kyle isn't looking at Stan, he's staring down at his hands instead. But, he finally speaks after a beat, "Are you…um, okay?"

There's that pang again.

_No, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay for a long time. I don't think I'll ever be okay. But I'll pretend to be okay, for you. I'll pretend to be okay, because I love you._

Stan just offers what he hopes is a convincing smile and replies, "Dude, I'm fine. I'm just a terrible drunk."

Kyle smiles back, a little uneasily. That's when Stan reminds himself, _you need to be quiet about it. _The little bit of horrible he lets out, Stan lets out when he's drunk. And that little tiny bit already puts Kyle off. He doesn't blame the guy. Stan puts himself off. He's terrible to be around. He'd know. He's around himself all the damned time.

When Stan and Kyle emerge from the tent, Kenny says, "Fucking finally. I was afraid you guys decided that it was good time for a morning fuck."

"Kenny!" scolds Wendy, where she's stacking camp dishes into their cardboard box. She inhales, hefting it up into her arms to take to the car.

Kenny turns and attempts to take it from her, and Wendy says, "Stop that. I can carry a box of dishes for ten feet."

"But –"

"Helping me when I tell you that I handle it on my own is called _benevolent misogyny_," she says.

Kenny pouts and says, "Yeah, okay. I know. You've told me before."

"I'll _tell you_ when I need help, okay?" Wendy replies.

Kenny walks away and mutters under his breath, just loudly enough that Stan and Kyle are able to hear, "Yeah, except you never need help." Stan still can't help but continue to find it humorous that of all the people Kenny could have gotten pregnant, that it's Wendy. He's all over the chivalrous "allow me" crap that Wendy is so averse to. Stan learned to not bother to argue with Wendy early on, and after awhile, he has sort of started to understand her point of view, though not entirely. It remains comical that Kenny is still becoming used to it.

The rest of the morning goes by quickly, at least, it starts to when Stan's headache begins to subside. Kenny and Kyle take down the tent while Wendy moves the remaining supplies on the picnic table back in the trunk of the Ford, and Stan has coffee and a slice of bread, because he's too lazy to cook anything.

It's a couple hours' drive back to South Park, and the ride is mostly silent. Kenny drives, since Stan is hungover. Wendy calls shotgun, and so he and Kyle slip into the back. Stan wishes he could fall asleep, but can't. Kyle does, though. The guy cannot be in a car without passing out, Christ. Within minutes of being on the road, Kyle's head is in Stan's lap.

Wendy follows Kyle's example, which Stan finds a little hilarious.

"She sleeps in the weirdest places," Kenny says, "Like once, I found her sleeping with her head on my kitchen table."

"A car's not such a weird place to fall asleep," Stan responds.

"I guess I just associate Wendy sleeping in a car with prom night," Kenny sighs absently.

"Prom night?" Stan's brows lift high in his hair. Stan didn't actually attend prom, to his mother's dismay. He thinks that that was the peak of his mother's worry for him. While every other kid flocked to the school gymnasium (South Park High School was not the wealthiest of schools), Stan stayed at home watching Discovery Channel and drinking. He hadn't even bothered hiding the liquor from his mom that night. And she hadn't said anything. Around the time when everybody else was presumably having prom night sex, he had his head in his toilet.

Kenny 'hmphs' and says, "I never told you about prom?" he glances at Wendy, which forces Stan's brows even higher up, which he had not thought possible at all. He is under the impression that this whole Kenny-Wendy affair began just about four months ago.

"Apparently not," Stan responds. He absently strokes Kyle's hair, playing with one of his ringlets.

Kenny laughs lightly, glancing at Wendy _again_, and says, "You know how we sort of had a freak snowstorm?"

"Uh, yeah?" Stan answers, despite the fact that he does not remember snow at all. His head was in the toilet bowl, not next to a window.

"I think that's the only time Wendy's ever let me help her with anything. She was trying to scrape the ice off of her dad's SUV in her big poofy dress, but she was too short. We argued a bit about letting me help, but she eventually caved. And somewhere in there, we ended up in the backseat of her car."

"You had sex with Wendy on prom night?" Stan exclaims.

"Shh!" Kenny says, "Not exactly. I'm guessing you don't remember how Token dumped her on prom night, either?"

"Unfortunately not," Stan mutters.

"She was leaving early, 'cause of him. I was leaving early 'cause I got caught spiking the punch and got kicked out," Kenny explains, "And shit, I dunno. I just felt really bad for her. She was like, crying and shit. And I wanted to cheer her up. So I was like making terrible jokes while I scraped her windows for her, and I was all, 'You know what would cheer you up?' and I did this –" Kenny briefly looks back at Stan and sticks his tongue between his fingers.

"You didn't," Stan says.

"I totally did," Kenny laughs, getting a blissful look on his face, the kind you get when you remember some of your fondest memories, "and she took me up on my offer."

"You are so full of shit," Stan says, amazed.

"I'm not, I promise," Kenny returns, "She sort of stared at me for a second, and I thought she was gonna punch me in the face or something, but then she was all, 'Okay. Let's do it.'" Stan gives Kenny a look of total disbelief, and Kenny goes on, "Oh yeah. That was the look on my face, too. It took me about ten seconds flat to get the back door open and her on the seat."

Kenny stops talking after that. Stan, meanwhile, is fascinated. He had _no fucking idea_ that all of that was going on while he was wallowing in his own feelings. He urges, "Then what happened?"

"What do you think happened, dumbfuck?" asks Kenny, "I was saving your delicate sensibilities from the gory details. But if you must know, my performance was _stunning. _You'll recall, I had a tongue ring at the time."

"What happened to your tongue ring, anyway?"

"Kept chipping my teeth from playing with it too much," Kenny gives a woeful sigh, "She returned the favor, too."

Stan's jaw drops. He goes, "Nu-_uh. _Now I _know_ you're full of crap, you lying sack of shit."

"I don't think she'd ever given a BJ before," Kenny says casually, "Not that I wasn't _totally delighted._"

Stan doesn't understand why Kenny adds the last part onto his sentence, until he sees Wendy. She is most certainly not asleep, and she's giving Kenny a death glare. She says, "I'll have you know, I did an excellent job for a beginner."

"_What?_" Stan creaks. He can't withhold his complete shock. He just can't.

"That you did, sweetheart," Kenny says, winking playfully.

Wendy rolls her eyes, "You are so full of yourself sometimes."

"I'm telling the truth," Kenny insists, "Are you telling me you didn't enjoy my brilliant tongue?"

"Whoa there," Stan says, but they ignore him.

"Of course I enjoyed myself. That's the first time somebody ever made me – "

Kenny looks horrified, "That was the first time somebody had ever made you come? Aw, shit, dude. That sucks. But I am totally honored to hold that place in your life, sweetheart."

That's approximately the place in which Stan decides that he is totally grossed out by the conversation. He sticks his headphones in his ears, since he can't fall asleep, and massages Kyle's neck with one hand.

Stan wonders if he'll ever be able to pay Kyle back for taking care of him last night. He knows he's repulsive when he's drunk and emotional. Kyle let him cry into his jacket, for fuck's sake. Stan owes him. He hopes he'll figure out a better way to show him how much that meant than sex all the time. Not that constant sex isn't awesome, because it is. He's starting to feel like being with Kyle is turning him into some kind of slut. Slut for Kyle? Kyle-slut? Something like that.

Thankfully, they arrive back in South Park without any more conversations about sex. Stan is going to have to make a deal with Kenny – I won't talk about my sex life, if you don't talk about yours. But then he realizes, Kenny _loves_ knowing about everybody else's sex life, and is occasionally under the impression that everybody wants to know about his, as well.

Stan's only real dilemma is figuring out how to keep all his bad feelings away from Kyle. They'll scare Kyle all the way back to New Hampshire, he just knows it.

He'll keep quiet.

Nobody needs to know.

**o.o.o.o**

For the next few days, Stan's life is filled with gratuitous amounts of sex and drinking himself to sleep. He's in a happy sort of haze. Or maybe, more accurately, it's a haze that he's forced himself into so that nobody has to know how terrified he is that he'd going to be abandoned. The haze is nice. If he stays in the haze, Kyle with stay with him.

"Jesus, you're happy," Heidi greets him, when Stan comes to work on Monday with his slacks actually ironed, whistling some tuneless song.

"Damn straight," he responds, but he's trying to convince himself of that, actually. _I'm happy. I am happy for Kyle. I am happy. I am happy._ No matter how many times he says it, though, it doesn't sink in. It doesn't sink in because Stan knows in his heart that he's lying to himself.

He hates himself and he's miserable.

Stan makes himself a pitcher of coffee in the staff lounge, but before it's even done brewing, he hears the front door to the office slam open, and shouting. Oh, shit. This usually happens when somebody is _really _panicked about their pet, or they feel as though Stan has wronged them in some way. They actually got a bomb threat, once, though it turned out just to be a farmer that had drunk too much and didn't care for Stan as much as he had the vet before Stan.

"Fucking Marsh! Get your ass out here!"

"E-Eric, I don't think we should be shouting, that's bad manners." That is definitely Butters, which means Butters' companion can only be one person.

Cartman yowls, "Shut the fuck up, _Leopold_! This is serious! Fucking dicks, all of you." Cartman shoves the office supplies and dish of candy off of the front desk. Heidi glances back and gives Stan a look of fear, before getting out of her chair and rushing toward the staff room.

"Cartman!" Stan snaps, "Calm the fuck down!"

"No, Stan, I _will not_ calm the fuck down, you stupid fag!" Cartman starts kicking at the papers he threw onto the ground. Meanwhile, Butters is cowering back by the children's corner in the waiting area, clutching Mr. Kitty around him stomach.

Stan inhales, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. He decides not to point out that Cartman is married to a man, and therefore, technically a "fag" as well. Not that Stan appreciates the terminology, but at least when it comes to Cartman, he's grown used to it. Kyle would probably pitch a fit, though.

"You _told us_ that Mr. Kitty was healthy! You told us!" Cartman shouts. He picks up one of the cheap chairs in the waiting area, holding it over his head for a moment, while he pants, red-faced. Then, his gaze zeroes in on Stan and he launches it at Stan. Stan ducks, and the chair crashes into the wall behind him.

"Jesus Christ!" Stan says, "Dude, Cartman, calm down. Let me see Mr. Kitty. He was healthy last time that I saw him."

Butters gives Cartman a deer-in-the-headlights look, and when Eric doesn't react, he rushes forward, following Stan to the examination room. Butters sets Mr. Kitty down and rubs his knuckles together, looking scared and upset and generally freaked out.

"Okay," Stan says, "Can you tell me why Cartman is throwing a tantrum? What's wrong with Mr. Kitty?"

"H-He's just all sad all the time," Butters explains, "He's, um, lethargic. He doesn't even like playing with his c-catnip toys."

"Alright," Stan says, "I'm gonna run some tests. Do you want to wait in here, or would you rather be out there with Cartman?"

Butters spares a glance in the direction of the waiting room and mumbles, "I'd like to s-stay here, please."

Stan has Heidi come in and help restrain Mr. Kitty. The cat, like most, is extremely displeased about having to be tied down in one place. Stan has found that cats generally hate the restraints even more than they dislike getting blood drawn. He doesn't need much for the test – it's a standard Feline Leukemia test – just about a half cc. The actual test only takes a few minutes, but the minutes are painful. Butters taps his feet against the linoleum floor and makes distressed noises under his breath, occasionally reaching out to give Mr. Kitty a reassuring pat.

Oh, shit. Stan does not like these results at all. He clears his throat, "Butters, I've got news."

"U-Uh, the good kind of news, or the bad kind?" Butters asks, but he thinks that Butters already knows that answer to that question. Butters is simply one for holding out hope.

"The, er, neutral kind," Stan says. He won't know if this is _really_ an emergency for a couple of days; their veterinary office isn't equipped with the laboratory equipment to further analyze the blood sample. He'll have to send it off to an office in Littleton, like he's had to before. He continues, "It looks like Mr. Kitty has been exposed to Feline Leukemia."

"Oh no," Butters whines, "Is he – is he gonna die, Stan? I can't have Mr. Kitty die. Eric n' me love him."

Stan says, "We won't know exactly how bad it is for a couple of days. I'm gonna send off some of this blood to another office down in Littleton. The real results will be in in maybe two, three days. How about I call you when I get the news, okay?"

"O-okay," Butters says, sounding dejected.

Stan is overcome by a horrible wash of guilt. How could he have missed something like this? He knows that he was hungover the day that Butters took Mr. Kitty in for the first time, but typically Stan is attentive regardless. He never misses anything. Well, almost never. He missed it this time, when it could possibly be a dire mistake. There is _no way _to treat Feline Leukemia. After cars, it's the second biggest killer of cats. He's so stupid, fuck.

"Um, Stan?" Butters says hesitantly, as Heidi hands Mr. Kitty back to him. He shuffles his feet and holds the cat close, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, "Could you maybe t-tell Eric the results? He's gonna be awful sore at me if I d-do, and I don't wanna –"

Stan cutes him off, "Of course, Butters. Cartman already hates me. It's fine."

"Oh, geez, Stan, he doesn't _hate_ you," Butters responds, but they both know how true that statement is: It isn't. After Stan's falling out with Kyle, Cartman never treated Stan quite in the same way. His insults were even more cutting, even more bitter, even more unfounded.

Needless to say, when Stan repeats what he told Butters in the examination room, Cartman does not take it well. He screams, throwing another chair at Stan and a third chair through the front window of the vet's office, "Goddamnit, you stupid _fucking asshole_ faggot, Stan! How could you be so careless? I'll fucking sue you! I'll sue you for malpractice! I'll get your license revoked!"

Stan doesn't bother telling Cartman that he isn't even licensed, that he learned everything from the previous veterinarian.

But Butters does. Butters pipes up, "Stan doesn't have a license, E-Eric."

Cartman flares up. He pauses, his hands already on the fourth and final chair that is in the waiting area. He turns around, stalking toward Stan. Each footstep almost shakes the building, or at least that's what it feels like. Stan doesn't think that he's ever seen Cartman this furious, and he's seen Cartman furious a whole hell of a lot of times. He's almost scared.

Stan cringes when Cartman shoves his pointer finger in his face. His voice is like ice when he speaks again, sounding eerily calm, "You _monster._ You horrible fucking human being. Treating animals without a fucking license, Stan? That's fucking low. That's animal abuse, you stupid asshole. I am going to get you for this. I fucking will." Cartman straightens out and swivels on his foot. He jerks his head in the direction of the door and says, "Come on, Butters. We're leaving this _sham_ of a veterinarian."

Stan thinks he's in shock. He stares after Cartman and Butters as they climb into Cartman's yellow Hummer. Butters gives Stan an apologetic look through the broken front window of the office, waving half-heartedly.

"Are you okay?" Heidi asks Stan.

"I…" Stan can't come up with anything to say.

Because Cartman's right. It's _true._

What he's been doing is wrong. He is wrong. He's horrible. He missed something important, something that could have made a huge difference in an animal's life, if he hadn't gotten drunk the night before, if he hadn't been hungover, if he hadn't practiced _fucking medicine_ without a license. This is all his fault, in so many terrible, terrible ways.

"Stan?" Heidi says, "If you need…you can take the rest of the day off."

Stan can't even count how many times she's said those words to him. He almost always refuses. In fact, he don't think that he's ever taken the suggestion before. But today, he blinks a couple of times before reminding himself to speak, and responds, "Yeah. Yeah, I think I will. Call me if you need anything. I'll have my cell."

"You try and have a better day, okay?" she pats him on the arm and he nods robotically, before walking swiftly out of the office and to his Ford.

Stan hasn't felt this awful in a long fucking time. And that is saying something, because he feels awful every goddamned day, except for those perfect moments of peace when he's with Kyle, and even then, there's an underlying terror, that fear that he's going to be left behind again. And he'll be alone.

_Alone._

_Alone alone alone alone._

He's been alone forever. For years and years. Having a precious few wonderful moments with Kyle didn't change anything. He doesn't know why he thought it did. He's happy only in those seconds. But like he said, even then, he wasn't _wholly_ happy. Because Stan knows, he knows that this isn't going to last and that he's just another small piece in Kyle Broflovski's life. In everybody's life. He's somebody's story, somebody's cautionary tale, but he isn't a friend. Not really.

Nobody wants a friend like him.

Nobody wants a brother or a son like him.

Every time Stan sees his mother, he sees the disappointment in her face. He's nothing but her failure, alcoholic son.

When Stan arrives home, it feels too small a space for him to think in. He ignores his dogs whining for his attention. They'd be better off without him, too. He's a terrible pet owner. They treat him like him like he's some sort of God, when he's really just a waste of space. They're the only things that will ever love him like he loves them.

Stan shuffles desperately through his alcohol cabinet, until he finds the fullest bottle of whatever. He takes it with him, outside, out of his suffocating house, out to his Ford.

The only thing on his mind is finding a place where he can think.

Stan drives for what feels like hours, but in actuality, is only minutes. He drives in silence, too. He doesn't deserve to have a soundtrack. He deserves to be left with his horrible thoughts in silence. He doesn't know why he was cursed to hate this way, to be this sad, but surely, he must deserve it.

Before he fell in love with his super best friend, before he fell into this cloying pit of horrible, resounding depression, before he isolated himself from other people so they wouldn't have to be sad too, before he started drinking himself to sleep, they'd come here. This place is one of his favorite in the whole world. He used to walk here before he could drive, and through all the years that he and Kyle didn't speak, he'd still come here. Sometimes, when Kyle was I New Hampshire and he felt that yawning emptiness of needing his super best friend, he'd come up here to get drunk.

They found it when they were eleven, just fucking around. Just being kids. When they were all happy. Because they weren't original, they named this place Stark's Cliff. It's where they threw rocks at cars – their new place, really. And it was just theirs. Just Stan and Kyle and Kenny and Cartman. No stupid Craig, or any of those other assholes. Just theirs. Kenny and Cartman and Kyle forgot about it, eventually. Of course. But Stan didn't forget. He didn't forget because he never forgets anything.

He wishes he could forget all the pain, all the hurt, all the utter hopelessness that he's felt all these years. When normal people have a bad day, it goes away after awhile. When Stan has a bad day, it's like an addition to an antique collection. He's had so many bad days, but he feels like he remembers every single one.

He remembers the heartbreak he felt when Kyle first uttered, "I just need to be around more positive people," and Kenny and Cartman told him that he just wasn't fun to be around anymore.

People don't like sad people. He realized that a long time ago. He knew it before most people should know. Most people find it out later, when something terrible happens and everybody they love just wants them to _stop talking about it_. That's what this is like…except that the horrible thing that happened is _Stan._

Stan parks his Ford on the side of road beneath Stark's cliff. He takes his liquor and tucks it under his arm, hiking the way up to the cliff itself.

The cars passing by below him look so small, but he knows that if he decided to jump, they'd kill him in an instant.

It's a strangely comforting thought.

Stan breaks open the seal on the lid of whatever alcohol he's holding. He's so consumed by this awful, sinking sadness that he doesn't even care what it is. He takes a long chug, letting it burn all the way down. Stan picks up stones and walks to the edge of the cliff.

For awhile, he lets himself throw rocks at cars. He lets himself feel like he's thirteen-year-old Stan, who only just starting to suspect that he's not as carefree at his best friends. They were always laughing then, and he just felt _wrong,_ like he didn't fit in the world. He was a piece from a different puzzle that was meant to be in a different box. He wasn't even the same color as the other pieces he got stuck with, not the same size, either. He was, is not, and never will be anything right. Everything about him is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He takes another deep swallow of alcohol.

And another.

And another.

Stan's swaying on his feet now.

It makes him think of Kyle, and how Kyle has been taking care of him.

Nobody should be forced to take care of him like that, and that's what he's doing every time that he gets drunk. He forces people to clean up after his pathetic messes, while all he wants to do is forget. Forget everything.

And he loves Kyle so much. So much that it makes him hurt everywhere. Not just in his heart, but he's so in love it makes in sick to his stomach, makes his head buzz with feeling, makes him tingle all the way to his fingertips. And it hurts even more when he remembers that Kyle will never love him back. Kyle is leaving at the end of the summer. This is just a phase.

Then he'll be all alone again.

Stan remembers every day that he's been alone.

He remembers every time he got drunk.

Every time he went on a walk to clear his head.

Every time he saw somebody laughing and hated them for it.

He remembers every time that somebody told him to "cheer up" and how he just got sadder because he couldn't make himself get happy like they all wanted him to.

He remembers every pair of disappointed eyes that looked at him when they cleaned him up. When they picked him out of a puddle of his own vomit, when they held his hair back when he threw up in the toilet, when he told them that he loved them or that he thought they were pieces of shit. Kyle's eyes. His mom's eyes. Kenny's eyes. Even Shelly's eyes. All disappointed. Every last one of them deserved somebody better than waste-of-space Stan – a better lover, a better son, a better friend, a better brother. He wasn't good at being any of those things. And now he's killing animals in his carelessness.

Stan downs the last of the liquid in the bottle and hurls it off of the cliff.

His cellphone is ringing.

He doesn't answer it, he presses ignore. He doesn't want to talk to anybody, but he does want to say goodbye.

To his mom and his dad and his sister, he texts:

_I love you._

To Kenny, he texts:

_Good luck, dude. _

And to Kyle, he texts:

_I'm going to miss you so much._

He would write to Kyle that he loves him, but that would just embarrass Kyle. Kyle doesn't love him back, and so he doubt that he'd want that to be the last thing that Stan ever said to him. But it's okay to say that you'll miss somebody, right? In heaven, or in hell, or wherever you're going?

Stan pockets his phone. It's a simple after-texting habit, he realizes, not that he'll ever need it anymore. Not where he's going. He secretly hopes that he'll get into heaven, but he highly doubts it. He's lead a terrible life. He's a terrible person. A terrible waste of space. If there is God, he doubts that God actually likes him much. He's spent his life being miserable and useless. He'll probably spend death that way too.

Then he hopes that there isn't a heaven or a hell, that he'll just be in the ground and it'll all be over.

It will all be finally over.

His phone is ringing again.

He doesn't care.

Stan sways more, but he manages to stumble forward, stumble toward the edge. When he jumps off, he'll fall straight onto the high way. If the fall doesn't kill him, a car definitely will.

"I'm sorry," Stan slurs. He doesn't know who he's talking to. Maybe he's just talking to everybody that he's ever had contact with. He's sorry that they all had to deal with him. He's sorry that he was that _one guy_ in their life that was never happy, that couldn't cheer up. And now he can't even pretend.

If Stan can't pretend that he's happy, then he's got nothing. He's lost all ability to force himself to live.

He takes another step forward. He's only a few inches away from the edge of the cliff.

Stan kicks a pebble off of the end of the cliff and watches it fall.

That will be him.

And it's a comforting thought. He won't bother anybody anymore.

He takes another step forward. His toes are touching the very edge. They're almost hanging off of it.

All he has to do…

…is jump.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you, as always, to the amazing people that make my day, my reviewers: NightmareMyLove, Anonymous, wthiedk, Mallory, EmoRainbowGoddess, Crazy88inator, Miroir Twin, VannaUsagi13, KirstenTheDestroyer, Porn Mercenary, OXRosinaOX, and InspirationPoint.**

**So like a bunch of you disappeared, then. Don't think I don't notice. /side eyes**

**SERIOUS NOTE: This chapter's track is actually personally meaningful to me. I have struggled with depression for years, and though I have finally jumped that hurdle, I remember **_**exactly**_** what it felt like. This song in particular was a highlight in my depression because it illustrated to me a particular aspect of what I felt, which was that I had to keep pretending to be happy so I didn't make other people sad.**

**I want **_**all**_** of you to know that I **_**never**_** want another human being to feel like that. If you know me, you know I am mostly an asshole in general, but when it comes to mental health, I am very serious. If any of you ever, ever need somebody to talk to, I will be here. **

**/serious note over**

**To answer some questions I have forgotten to answer:**

_**What lube do Stan and Kyle use? **_**I imagine that they'd be pretty standard lube guys, they probably wouldn't even look at what brand they were buying. Kenny, on the other hand, probably has a vast collection of every kind of lube known to man. And I'm of the opinion that Tweek would like flavored lube.**

_**Do you write Kyman? **_**This has come up a couple of times, and this may be disappointing to a few people – but I don't write Kyman. The way I see their relationship is way too fucked up to be written. **

_**How many chapters are you planning? **_**I don't actually plan my chapters beyond the important details. So the answer is 'I don't know.' I write my chapters the same way that Matt & Trey write South Park. After I finish an installment, I have basically no idea what's happening next (there are exceptions, like this chapter). **

**Sorry for the long note, just some important things to get out of the way!**


	13. Remember the Flash

**Chapter Track: Neverending Nights – Elvenking **

"I'm worried about Stan," Kyle says suddenly.

It's "bro" night, or something like that. Kyle couldn't follow exactly what Kenny was talking about, but he's gathered that tonight belongs to them – just chilling, shooting the shit, Kyle getting slaughtered at video games, watching bad, nondescript horror films. They ordered pizza and have thus eaten one and half pizzas by themselves, indulging in Kyle's "snobby college kid" beer, as well.

Kenny glances away from the movie – Kyle can't even remember the title at this point, something about an eye or eyes maybe, but he's possibly wrong. All he knows is that there are creepy children and some dumbass dude is walking into basements by himself like a moron. He says, "Well, duh, dude. We all are."

"Why hasn't anybody done anything?"

"About what? His drinking?"

"Yeah," Kyle confirms.

Kenny twists his face up in thought, scratching the back of his neck and downing a couple swallows of beer. He says, "I've tried, sort of. He doesn't listen to me, man. Probably because I spent a lot of time in high school getting fucked up with him. You could always try."

"But," Kyle says, "I should have been with him when this all started. I don't think I have the right to tell him to stop _now_."

"Sure you do," Kenny disagrees politely, "You're his best friend. And sort of boyfriend…thing…"

Kyle's brows crunch together. He asks, "You really think he'd listen to me?"

Kenny shakes his head with a light laugh, "Dude, if I could answer that, we probably wouldn't be having this conversation – oh, shit, this dude is stupid as fuck. First the basement, now the attic. Fuck! There's that creepy kid."

"What if your kid looks like that?" Kyle teases.

"I'll have to kill it for the good of humanity, holy fuck," Kenny shields his eyes from the television screen with one hand, and takes another sip of beer.

It's just then that Kenny's cell starts to ring. The song it plays is "Sexy Bitch," which is what Kenny programmed it to play whenever Wendy calls.

"I gotta get that, man," Kenny says. He picks up and answers the call with his usual sly, teasing tone of voice that he uses when he speaks to Wendy, "Hey, sweetheart. What's up?"

Kyle can hear Wendy's shrill voice on the other line. He can't hear what she's saying, but she sounds absolutely frantic. And when Kenny's lopsided grin falls flat, his face assuming a mask of seriousness, Kyle knows something is really wrong.

"What do we do?" Kenny asks, "Shit. Okay. I'll be there in a second, Wendy." He hangs up and makes a beeline for his shoes and car keys, tossing over his shoulder, "Dude, I gotta go. Sorry about bro night. It's an emergency."

"Wait, what's going on?" Kyle asks, but Kenny's already out the front door. No more than ten seconds later, he hears the sound of Kenny's truck starting, and pulling away down the street with a screech.

Well, shit. Kyle hopes everything is okay, but he's guessing that it's not.

Kyle switches off the horror movie, finding himself no longer in the mood to watch anything, particularly something as bad and low budget as whatever this crap is. In a way, though, he had been thankful when Kenny decided that they were going to have a night of boring shenanigans to himself. Kyle was glad that he'd be doing something that would perhaps take his mind off of Stan for a little while.

Not that it worked very well. He'd still gotten lost in his thought. He still thought of Stand drinking, of Stan being scared, of Stan not being able to admit what has him so upset. Kyle knows whatever it is that had Stan in tears that night of camping is still bothering him. When Kenny is at work at the shop, Kyle typically finds himself over at Stan's place, doing whatever (usually having sex or wrestling around with the dogs. He's discovered that Stan doesn't actually enjoy going out much). During the time he spends with Stan, he's started to pick up on something _wrong. _At first, Kyle thought that he was paranoid. But when he brought it up to Kenny, Kenny got this far-off, sad look in his eyes.

Kenny doesn't just get sad, far-off looks in his eyes. It simply doesn't happen. He's too brash and happy-go-lucky and up front about everything. But when Kyle asked if something was wrong with Stan the first time, Kenny shook his head with a small frown and said, "Yeah, dude. But you're gonna have to talk to him about it."

Kyle doesn't like confrontation. He also doesn't like being as unskilled at he is at feelings, because it means that if he did confront Stan about whatever is bothering him, he wouldn't have much to go on. _Hey, Stan? You seem a little off. I don't know what possibly could be going on, and there might not even be something happening at all, but I thought I'd humor my own paranoia and ask, are you okay?_

Yeah, that wouldn't go over well.

Kyle doesn't understand what could possibly be wrong. But then, he also doesn't understand why Stan drinks so much. Stan is, and always has been, his favorite person in the world. He's one step away from perfect, that guy. He's good-looking, has a good job, a pack of cute dogs, his own place – his life is in perfect order, unlike Kyle's. Kyle is a waiter at a mostly-shitty restaurant in New Hampshire. He lives in a tiny, leaky apartment and can barely afford his utilities from month to month. He's scrawny and pale and socially awkward.

But…Kyle's alright. And Stan seems somehow less than alright.

No, Kyle knows better than that. He may be a little stupid when it comes to people's feelings, but he knows that the way Stan is drinking indicates something much worse than a little irritation. He should have known in high school – he feels awful about not paying attention – but he was too concentrated on himself. He was focused on applying to schools, on keeping up his grades, on drama that wouldn't matter for shit in a handful of weeks, but seemed damned important at the time.

This has been going on for a long, long time. He tries to pinpoint when he first saw Stan pick up a bottle, or the first time that he was drunk-dialed, or the first time that he had to walk Stan home from some party that the older kids in town were throwing, and hold him up while he vomited in somebody's front yard.

They were barely fourteen, he thinks.

That's how old they were in his first memory of Stan and too much alcohol.

It happened during the summer after they'd graduated from the eighth grade. Kyle can't even remember what he'd been doing beforehand – probably sitting down to dinner with his family, maybe arguing with Ike over something stupid. A standard night at the Broflovski household. He just remembers that as he was changing for bed, his phone rang. He was kind of excited, because his parents had only _just_ allowed him to get a cellphone, and barely anybody called him yet.

When he saw that the number calling belonged to Stan, he greeted, "Hey dude!"

There had been silence on the line for a moment, and then the sounds of fumbling. Then Stan replied, "_Hey…dude. Need your help._" Except the way that Stan had said those words, it sounded more like, "need yer 'elp," and then he'd hiccupped.

"Uh, sure man. What's up?"

"_I'm fucked up. Need help getting home._"

Kyle had stared at his phone for a moment. He remembered not believing Stan at first, thinking that he was just playing some stupid prank, because he'd responded, "Ha fucking ha. Very funny."

"_I'm serious, man. 'M at Stark's Pond. Everything is all…swimmy,_" were Stan's next words.

Kyle did believe his super best friend after that, but the belief was more of a scared realization. Sure, they tended to get into shitloads of trouble when left to their own devices, but they'd only ever had brief stints with drugs or drinking. Mostly, they avoided all that crap. South Park was fucked up enough without that shit, they'd always laugh. But Stan had apparently changed his mind.

"Okay. I'll be there in a second," Kyle had said. He tried to sound as calm as possible, but inside, he was panicking. Stan was his _best friend_. Was something wrong? He remembered repeating in his head over and over again, _shit shit shit shit shit._ It was a school night, for Christ's sake. His mother would never let him outside without an explanation. So, Kyle slipped out his window instead, shimmying down the tree in his pajamas and beaten-up tennis shoes.

He could hear the party from ages away. It's like that in the mountains, especially at night. There are so few people and so little noise that you can hear almost anything. Kyle can see his neighbor's bonfire sometimes on weekends – and that particular neighbor lives miles away, up the mountain.

There was laughing and talking and the sound of somebody fighting. Officer Barbrady would be there soon, Kyle knew that if his mother hadn't made the noise complaint already, then somebody definitely had.

As soon as he reached the pond, he spotted Stan almost immediately. He was identifiable only by his hat – otherwise, Kyle wouldn't have known he was looking at his super best friend. The difference was in his stumbling walk, the way he had his arm slung casually around some older dude that Kyle had always seen around South Park but never bothered to ask his name. Kyle had rushed forward, pushing through the tangle of older kids doing stupid things he was certain at the time that he would never do himself.

"Heeeey," Stan greeted, "Guys, it's my super best friend."

The other kids, high schoolers, had laughed at them. One even shouted, "Aw, look how _cute_ they are together!"

"Hey, fuck you," Kyle said, extracting Stan from the arm of the guy next to him.

The high schoolers laughed again, shouting gay jokes that Kyle didn't even find insulting, because that was right around the time that he'd started to crush on Stan in the first place. He just flipped them off, grabbed Stan underneath his arms, and helped him make his way slowly and clumsily back to the Marsh house.

"Hey dude," Kyle began. He remembers all the things that he wanted to ask Stan. _Why did you do this? What happened? Do you need to stay the night? Are you going to be okay?_ So many questions, but when it came the time to ask them, the words had died on Kyle's lips.

Mostly because, before he could even begin the interrogation, Stan had started spouting off a drunken ramble. He went, "It's shit, Kyle. It's all shit. Everything. My parents are shit, my sister is shit, my whole life is shit. I fuckin' hate every – ev – every – "

That was the point at which Stan pushed Kyle off of him to kneel in the grass and throw up. Kyle knelt beside his super best friend and pulled his hair out of his face. They'd both been going through possibly the most epic long-haired phase in history at the time; he and Kyle both looked like some dudes out of a metal band (Kyle's worked out quite a bit less. He had sported a poofy, wavy red mane that he hacked off before high school started).

Stan threw up a second time, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He'd looked up at Kyle with hazy, liquor-clouded eyes, and announced, "I fuckin' love you. Everything else is the worst. I don't know if I can…if I can –" And Stan hurled for the third time into the grass.

Kyle never found out what Stan didn't think he could do, he realizes now. He hadn't asked. He'd simply heaved Stan up, supporting his body with his own, and kept moving.

He did ask, though, "I don't get it, dude. What happened? What's wrong?"

"I dunno," Stan had replied numbly, "I just woke up, and it was all shit. Everything is shit. Feel like I'm never gonna be okay again."

"Don't say that, man," Kyle had said. He remembered being confused. Not understanding at all. How does one just wake up sad? How can everything change in a day? His heart felt heavy because he didn't like seeing Stan like this, fucked up beyond belief and rambling off curses about how nothing was right in the world. Kyle tried to cheer him up. He'd gone to say, "There are lots of good things about life. Your parents didn't divorce. Isn't that good? And you finally kissed Wendy. And you've got me." Kyle hadn't added Kenny's name to the mix, because Kenny was more fucked up at the time than anybody. When Kyle asks about that time now, Kenny refuses to speak of it. He changes the subject, avoiding it all too deftly.

"I don't have anybody," Stan had whispered.

Kyle thinks now that that must have been the sentence that changed them forever. That was what first opened up the rift between them. Of course Stan had had Kyle. Hadn't Kyle always made that known? Sure, they'd gotten into fights, but they'd always worked it out eventually. They were _super best friends_, how did that shit just change out of nowhere? But Stan had changed. Stan had changed out of nowhere.

"Yeah, you do," Kyle insisted, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice at that point, "You have me, you always have me."

"Not this time," Stan shook his head. Kyle wanted to argue – his mouth was already open and poised to shout, but Stan held up a wavering hand. They were in front of the Marsh house. He said, "Fuck you, dude. You're a piece of shit. Just like – just like everybody else." And he'd hiccupped, swaying up his porch steps.

Kyle had frozen. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to cry, but at fourteen, crying had seemed like the most embarrassing thing a person can do. So instead, he'd shouted, "Well, fuck you, too!"

They'd still been friends, though. Kyle realized when Stan called him a couple days later that his best friend didn't even remember the events of that night. And Kyle proceeded to tuck away that night in the back of his mind, writing it all off as cynical drunk-talk, moving on to tease Stan about being a terrible drunk (which he is).

But now…

Kyle isn't so certain there wasn't more to that.

He cracks open a new beer after he's put the leftover pizza away in the fridge. He hopes Wendy is okay, but he wishes that he didn't have to be left alone at the moment. Kyle has been too goddamned pensive lately, too lost in his own thought. There's something about Stan that makes him loopy, weird in the head, and all loose and full in his heart and body. It's the strangest fucking feeling he has ever felt in his life, but he wonders now if it hasn't been there all along, that being in close proximity with Stan again brings it to fruition. It's a little like the bit of Jersey in him, except the feeling goes much, much deeper in him. So deep he can't find the source, so deep he can't explain the feeling with logic.

Kyle has never been one for romantic love. After so many failed relationships and his parents' own strained marriage, he's chocked it all up to a steaming load of horseshit. The only people that claim to love him – that he believes – are his parents, his brother, and Kenny. None of those loves are romantic loves.

But this thing with Stan is different. Different in a way that makes Kyle nervous as hell. He genuinely _likes_ Stan. He feels real affection for Stan, not just some forced kiss goodbye, or sex he's not interested in, or any of those other things he's dealt with in the past four years. He enjoys, like he has always enjoyed, being with Stan. He likes getting his ass whooped while playing video games with Stan. He likes Stan's dogs and Stan's smell and Stan's blue eyes and Stan's boyish, high school-heartthrob smile. Hell, he likes doing _absolutely nothing_ with Stan. He likes sitting around with Stan and talking about jack shit.

He…feels safe with Stan.

Jesus Christ. If there's one thing he's never felt in any of his past relationships, it's been safety. He's been made nervous by the thought of having to see his significant other, all the way to dreading their arrival back home (to be fair, the latter applied only to Mitchell).

Oh, fuck.

This can't be what actual love feels like, can it? Kyle's heard it described over and over in a million different ways. That's one thing he hates about it. Nobody can tell another person what love is because love is ten billion different things to every person on this planet. He can't apply logic to love, just like he can't apply logic to these feelings he gets around Stan.

Which, logically, would make those feelings love, right?

Fuck fuck fuck. He doesn't know. How can he know?

_I might love Stan._

_Like, love love._

Should he tell Stan? Should he keep it to himself? No matter what happens in the next month and a half, Kyle will still have to return to New Hampshire to finish up his education. Maybe he should just keep it to himself, then. But then, that means that he probably won't stop thinking of Stan for a single moment that they're apart. That can't be healthy. Can it?

Just as inner panic starts to surface and Kyle tries to choke it back down with a swig, of beer, the front door swings open. He has to admit that he wants to know if everything's okay.

Kenny's carrying a huge polka-dotted suitcase into the house. Wendy is right behind him, looking pale and drawn, shadows marking the space underneath her eyes.

"What's going on?" asks Kyle.

"Not right now," says Kenny, holding up an agitated hand, "I'll tell you after I get Wendy settled, okay? C'mon, sweetheart."

Kenny hefts the suitcase up the stairs, and Wendy follows slowly, almost frailly, with her hand clutching the railing like a lifeline.

He hears them talking quietly as soon as Wendy makes it upstairs, but can't make out the exact words. He isn't sure he wants to, either, despite his history of eavesdropping. Kyle is 99% sure that Kenny and Wendy are having a moment that he is more than not invited to. Instead of staring up at the second floor like he wants to, Kyle forces himself to awkwardly walk back to the kitchen and plop down at the table. He finishes his beer too damned early, and occupies the silence by retrieving an unopened bag of nacho cheese flavored Doritos and eating them as loudly as possible.

Kyle watches the time on the microwave clock. Kenny does come back downstairs for forty-seven more minutes. When his friend collapses back on the chair across from Kyle, Kyle demands, "Is she okay? Is, uh, the kid okay?"

"Yeah, fine, sort of," Kenny mumbles.

"What do you mean 'sort of'?"

"She started like, bleeding everywhere. I didn't really get what the doc was saying, it was all medical mumbo-jumbo, but she's literally supposed to stay in bed until she gives birth. She wanted to stay with me, so I put her up in my bed," Kenny explains, "I think about shit my pants in fear, though. Do we have any beer left?"

Kyle replies, "Yeah, I put it away in the fridge. But, um, she's okay, right?"

Kenny lifts himself up and slogs to the refrigerator. He answers before sitting back down, "Yeah, she's alright. You got a new roommate though." Kenny winks, half-heartedly, before opening the beer on the edge of the table.

"Wait, what? I –" Kyle begins, before he realizes that Kenny means himself. Kyle asks, "Why aren't you staying in your own damn bed, with her?"

"For the record, both of the beds in this house are my 'own damn bed.' But she didn't tell me it was okay, so I'm not gonna sleep in the same bed as her unless she gives me the green light," Kenny says.

Kyle lets Kenny finish his beer in silence before he questions, "You wanna head up to bed, then? You look exhausted, man."

"I am," Kenny manages. He tosses his beer bottle in the recycling bin (which he got to impress Wendy), and as they stand, he motions for Kyle to come over, "C'mere, dude. I need a hug."

"Aw, dude," Kyle mumbles back, and he wraps his arms around Kenny's torso, squeezing tight.

Kenny clings to Kyle and rests his forehead against Kyle shoulder. He says into the fabric of his t-shirt, "I am freaked out so bad, dude. I don't even know what to with myself, this gave me the goddamned scare of my life."

"She's alright," Kyle soothes, "That's what you said, anyway."

Kenny snorts and punches Kyle's arm before pulling away, "I know, I'm just…distraught."

"That's a big word for you," teases Kyle.

Kenny punches him again, this time harder, and says, "Suck my dick, you insufferable spooge-rag."

Kyle holds his hand over his heart in a dramatic gesture and says, "That was harsh. You got me right here, dude."

They both give soft, tentative laughs. The rest of the night passes in silence, as they ready themselves for bed. Kyle isn't looking forward to sleeping next to Kenny – Kyle is a light sleeper to begin with, and Kenny snores louder than anything Kyle has ever heard before. But, he doesn't feel like it would be an appropriate time to complain about something so small. Maybe he'll just spend more nights at Stan's place.

So, when they slip into the bed from opposite sides and Kenny jokes, "So, how do you like it? Doggy, against the wall, plain ol' missionary?" Kyle just laughs and shoves him, and they turn out the lights without further discussion.

**o.o.o.o**

Kyle wakes up alone, for which he is thankful. He hardly slept at all last night, with Kenny's constant noise on top of all the bullshit on his mind. It's already late in the day, not that he's surprised. After a night so sleepless, it figures he'd pass out until after three in the afternoon.

He showers and dresses, contemplating mostly his new realization that he might know what love is and may currently be suffering from it. Those thoughts make his chest hurt. If this is love, love feels like some sort of sick malady, except it's definitely terminal and there is no way out of it.

He runs into Kenny on the way downstairs – Kenny is holding a tray of somewhat burnt pancakes, and before Kyle can comment, he says, "I tried my best, don't be a dick."

Kyle holds up his hands in defense and mumbles, "Ooh-kayy."

Although it's mid-afternoon, Kyle still feels like breakfast food. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and snags a seat at Kenny's kitchen table. As he's spooning Fruity Pebbles into his mouth he flips open his phone to answer a text.

_From: Ike: So Cartman threw a chair through the window of the vet office._

_To: Ike: The one where Stan works?_

_From: Ike: No, the other vet in South Park. You're retarded, what the fuck else would I mean?_

_To: Ike: Nobody got hurt, right?_

_From: Ike: Dunno, just getting coffee, watching a couple dudes board it up. The chair is sitting in a pile of glass in the parking lot._

Well, shit. Kyle shoots off a quick text to Stan, though he's fairly certain that Stan can handle Cartman better than he ever could.

_To: Stan: You alright? Ike says Cartman busted the window at your work._

Kyle sticks his phone in his pocket and finishes his cereal. It feels weird not to have a bunch of shit on his agenda, or maybe he's still relieved that he isn't camping. He contemplates taking a nap – sleeping next to Kenny is just fucking exhausting. Or, he could walk over to Tweak Bros and read or something. He hasn't had much time to himself lately, and he is feeling a little overwhelmed by the lack of space. The fact that he's sharing a bed just emphasizes to Kyle more how stressful being around people too much is becoming. Maybe he _should_ stay at Stan's. Stan doesn't make noise in his sleep, and he smells good, and he's really excellent at spooning, whether he's the big spoon or the little one.

Kenny's home phone starts to ring, causing Kyle to jump out of his daydreams.

"Can you get that, dude?" Kenny calls from upstairs.

"Yeah, just a sec," Kyle says back. He clicks the phone on and answers in his best receptionist voice, "McCormick residence, how may I help you?"

"_Kenny_?" says the voice on the other line, "_It's Heidi. Have you heard from Stan?"_

"It's Kyle, and I haven't. Why?" Kyle starts to feel an awful sick feeling roil around his stomach, almost as if a snake is curling up inside him and slithering around.

"_We just, uh, got a call from one of the outlying farms – I need to reach him but he's not picking up. And he always picks up for work, even if he's…indisposed,_" explains Heidi.

Now Kyle's a little beyond worried. He says, "Have you tried again?"

"_Yeah, like six times. I'm really worried! This has never happened before, and then with this morning's incident, oh God,_" she sounds actually panicked, which in turn makes Kyle feel panicked.

"What happened, exactly?"

"_Cartman threw a temper tantrum, that asshole. He said some really terrible things to Stan, and I don't think he took it well. I told him to go home, and he did, but he never listens to me usually,_" Heidi responds.

Kyle takes a deep shaking breath, "Is this like, search party serious?" He hates that he's been so distant that he doesn't know the answer to that question already. He wishes that he knew absolutely everything about Stan and could just _know_ where Stan is without question.

Heidi inhales, and doesn't answer for a moment, giving herself time to think over Kyle's question. Finally, she responds, "_Fuck. I – I think so, Kyle._"

Kyle's heart pumps faster. He finds himself nodding dumbly even though Heidi can't see him, and shakes himself out of his trance enough to say, "Okay. Um, fuck. Okay. I'll start looking for him. Keep calling people that might know where he is – and keep calling him."

"_I will. Bye,_" Heidi says, and she hangs up without another word.

Frustrated, Kyle takes out his phone. There's no response to earlier text from Stan. He texts out a second one, this one more urgent than the first.

_To: Stan: Where are you? Can't get ahold of you._

"Kenny!" Kyle calls, pounding up the stairs. He sure as hell fucking hopes that Kenny and Wendy aren't up to any shenanigans that would be embarrassing if they were to walked in on.

"What? Who was it?" Kenny pokes his head out of his bedroom, where Wendy is laying back on the bed, looking extremely worn down.

Kyle breathes, "Heidi. She says she can't reach Stan, that he doesn't do this. Has this ever happened before? I asked her if she thought this was search party scary, and she says that it is."

Kenny's mouth falls into a flat line. He gives a stiff nod and says, "Stan may not have all his shit together, but he takes that job damned seriously. Fuck." Kenny runs both of his hands through his hair, and glances back at Wendy.

She says, her voice thin, "I'm _fine_, really. Go out and find Stan. I'll call you if I need anything."

Kenny looks like some combination of relieved and stressed. He sprints to her side and ducks down to kiss her on the forehead, announcing, "We'll be back as soon as we find him, sweetheart."

Kenny and Kyle scramble for their shoes, and in an instant, they're out the door. Kyle asks as Kenny revs up his truck, "Where do we go first?"

"We check his house, I guess," Kenny says.

When they arrive, and they desperately knock on Stan's front door, there is no response but barking dogs. Somehow Kyle knew, knew that Stan wouldn't be home. He knows that something is very wrong here, and he doesn't know how he's supposed to fix it. Fuck.

"Damn it," Kenny swears, kicking Stan's door. He's met by Daisy's deep bark.

They start walking toward the car, when Kyle has an idea. He says, "Hang on a sec."

He finds himself walking up the same path to Stan's place, but shifting one door over, to the area of the tiny front porch that is decorated in wind chimes, dream catchers, and weird plants in painted pots. Before Kyle can even knock on Tweek's door, it's open, and the man in question is shivering in the doorway. He says, "_Ngh – _If you're looking for Stan, he drove off like an h-hour ago. Jesus, you don't think he's dead, do you? Like he'd do something stupid? Oh Christ, I knew I should have told somebody!"

"Tweek, calm down," Kyle says, "He's not – he's not dead. We'll find him. You're a big help, seriously." But Tweek's paranoia heightens his own fear. Stan is missing. He drove off an hour ago. Where the fuck could he be?

Back in the truck, Kenny is apparently calling everybody that they know.

"Thanks, Bebe. We'll keep looking too. You're the best. Bye," are the words that Kyle hears when he slips into the passenger seat. He glances over as he casts his phone aside, and tells Kyle, "Bebe says she'll start checking in town. She wants us to drive out of town and see if we can find him. Maybe he's just pulled over on the side of the high way and drinking and shit."

"Are we sure that's the way to go?" Kyle says uncertainly.

"I don't see another option," Kenny replies.

Kenny and Kyle stare at each other for a few moments. Kyle announces, "Tweek says that Stan drove off somewhere an hour ago."

"Fuck. Dude, he could be anywhere," Kenny exasperatedly says, "He's not fucking stable enough to be running off on his own. Shit. Shit shit goddamn shit!"

"What do you mean, he's 'not stable'?" Kyle asks. More accurately, the words just fall out of his mouth. He knows Stan drinks a lot, but he's fine…right?

"Kyle, you're so fucking stupid sometimes. I swear to fucking God, sometimes you just need to be hit over the head with a blunt object," Kenny rants. When Kyle doesn't respond, he says, "Stan has got the most goddamned terrible case of depression I've ever seen in my life, okay? And he copes by drinking. He could be doing something _irreversibly stupid_ right now."

"_What_? You don't mean –"

"Yes, I mean –"

Kenny's phone goes off again. He leaps to grab it. Kenny's body seems to melt with relief when he sees the screen. He glances at Kyle and says, "It's from Stan." But then he flips open his phone and looks at the actual message –

But before Kyle can see Kenny's face falling, his own phone dings with the alert that he has a text.

_From: Stan: I'm going to miss you so much._

"Oh my God," Kyle croaks, "Oh my God. What did yours say?"

Kenny shows him the screen – _Good luck, dude. _

"Oh shit," Kyle says.

_Where could he be where could he be where could he be oh fuck oh fuck Jesus fucking Christ where is Stan. _

Then the revelation hits him. Holy fuck, Kyle hopes he's right. He hopes to God that he's right. He says, "I think I know where he is. Step on it, dude!"

Kenny throws the truck forward more carelessly than Kyle has ever seen him drive. Kenny shouts, "Where am I going?"

"Do you remember that little cliff we found when we were like, eleven?"

"The one we named 'Stark's Cliff'? Oh Jesus, you're right," Kenny slams on the gas. His truck doesn't go very fast, it's too old – this is the fastest that Kyle has ever witnessed it going. They barrel out of South Park and onto the highway, peeling out of town faster than ever before. Kenny is flooring that shit.

There, at the base of the cliff, is Stan's Ford.

And there, on the edge of the cliff above them, is Stan.

"Holy _shit_," Kyle cries.

Kenny slams on the brakes, sending them both reeling forward, before Kyle has torn off his seatbelt and is bolting up the hill. He'd usually be tripping over his feet. He isn't graceful, he knows that, but he doesn't have _time_ for clumsiness, his brain won't let him trip. The only thing on his mind is getting up that goddamn hill and getting to Stan.

_Shit._

His heart beats at million beats per minute.

He feels like he might die.

Kyle finds his footing on the flat edge of the cliff and rushes forward. Stan sways on his feet. He's drunk, oh fuck, he's drunk.

Stan lifts his foot. Has he even noticed that Kyle and Kenny are there?

"_GODDAMNIT, STAN, NO!" _Kyle bellows at the top of his lungs.

He dives forward, pitching his body across the several feet between him and Stan. He seizes the back of Stan's coat – his lab coat, and yanks him back with every ounce of his strength, with strength he didn't even know he had because he has never had to use it until now. He and Stan skid together back across the rock, Kyle on top of Stan's body.

"Stan," Kyle weeps out, "Stan, why would you – "

But Stan is out cold.

"Fuck," Kyle cries – and he is very literally crying. He swats at the tears on his face. He feels for Stan's pulse, and his hand comes away covered in blood.

He looks up, terrified, to where Kenny has just made it, panting heavily.

"He's bleeding!" Kyle near-screams, "I hurt him, holy shit, he's gonna die 'cause of me I don't know what to do oh my God Kenny – "

"Kyle!" Kenny snaps, "He's fine. He's breathing. Head wounds bleed a lot. But we gotta get him to Hell's Pass, I think he drank a whole forty by himself."

**o.o.o.o**

"This waiting room is too goddamned _white_," Kyle complains. It's the only thing he's thought to say in over an hour. After buckling Stan's deadweight body into the front seat, Kyle sat in the bed of Kenny's truck, and they blasted their way down the highway in the opposite direction that they'd come. They made it to the hospital in ten minutes flat, but that doesn't stop the worry from coming up and seizing Kyle around his middle.

They're pumping Stan's stomach now.

Kyle's heard a lot of terms today. _Superficial wound to the head_ or something. He just hit a rock. It wasn't that bad. These reassurances should be making Kyle feeling _something_, something other than cold, hard dread.

Kyle taps his foot against the floor, bouncing his leg up and down anxiously.

Until Kenny kicks him.

"Stop that. You're making me nervous," Kenny chides, sounding eerily like Wendy.

"Kenny, I think I'm in love with him," Kyle blurts out.

Kenny just gapes, crossing his arms over his chest. He says, "Glad you've caught up with the rest of us, you stupid shit."

Kyle is about to retort, when a nurse in mint green scrubs clears her throat in front of them. She says, her eyes barely lifted away from her clipboard, "We knocked him out, but he's gonna be just fine. You can go see him now, if you'd like."

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you so so much for the bevy of kind reviews I got last chapter, from these beautiful humans (or velociraptors, I don't judge): dotdotdanii, Sunshine-aki, ObanesHarvest, Porn Mercenary, conversefreak3, EmoRainbowGoddess, OXRosinaOX, Starrydango, Miroir Twin, Crazy88inator, Narcolepcy375, NightmareMyLove, Kath, Mallory, DoYouUnderstand, WxTxR, TheAwesome15, Magical Reality, Jen, Random, Chasing Rabbits, VannaUsagi13, lily's mom09, KirstenTheDestroyer, and glow vomit.**


	14. This Too Shall Pass

**Chapter Track: Good Times – Marcy Playground**

The first thing that Stan registers is the dull throb in his head. What happened? Did he get drunk again?

Wait, where is he?

Stan is afraid to open his eyes. He's woken up in some damned strange (not to mention embarrassing) places over the years.

For a moment, he composes himself, mentally preparing for whatever bar bathroom or toilet bowl he's sure to wake up in. Then, he hears voices. They're kind of fuzzy-sounding, like the people that are talking are far away from wherever he's lying.

"_I don't understand. What happened?_"

"_He was…on the edge of a cliff, Sharon. He was about to jump. I pulled him back, hit his head by accident. I'm sorry._"

"_Sorry? You saved his life! I don't know how I can possibly thank you, oh, God._"

Stan chooses then to open his eyes. He regrets it instantly. Wherever he ended up, it's bright, bright white, and filled with fluorescent lights. Wait…

Did he die? He's filled with a sudden rush of relief. No more hurt. No more pain. No more worry. No more shit. He's dead now. The second feeling that assaults him is worry – Who will feed his dogs? Shit, he didn't give anybody instructions on that.

And where the fuck is he, anyway? If it's all bright and white, does that mean that he's in heaven?

"Ung, fuck," he mumbles. Stan tries to move his hand to shield his eyes, but when he does, he feels a tug at the inside of his elbow. He blinks a couple of times and looks over.

There's an IV in his arm.

"You're awake," he hears somebody say.

Stan squints and lets his eyes adjust. It's…his mom.

"Mom?" Stan questions. He's confused, but after a few seconds, slowly puts the pieces of the puzzle back together. IV in his arm. His mom. Bright white surroundings with ugly fluorescent lights.

He's at Hell's Pass.

"How are you feeling, Stanley?" she asks, moving from the end of his bed to stand beside him. She holds her hand over his forehead as though she's checking his temperature, even though he's sitting in a hospital bed with a needle stuck in him. She looks as though she rushed to the hospital from work. Her short hair is sticking up from running her hands through it, and there's some sort of stain down the front of her pink polo shirt. Stan feels abruptly guilty, even though he's not quite sure what's going on and he's still trying to sort out his thoughts.

"I…" he starts, thinking it over. How _is_ he feeling? He replies with the first answer that pops up in his head, "I'm confused."

His mom looks as if she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. She holds his hand, clutching tight, like he's a kid again and she's afraid that he'll get lost. She says, "From what I understand, you – you tried to," Sharon swallows and whispers the last two words, "kill yourself." She glances from him to the person standing beside her – a person that quickly reveals himself to be Kyle.

"Kyle?" Stan says, now even more confused than before.

"Hey dude," Kyle responds, smiling sadly.

Stan is silent for a few moments, his eyes going from his super best friend/lover/sort-of-boyfriend, to his mother. Finally, he asks, "Can somebody explain what the hell is going on?"

Sharon steps back and gestures at Kyle. He rubs the back of his neck and says, "You were at Stark's Cliff. You were drunk, and you were about to – about to jump. I pulled you back and Kenny and I took you here."

"Kenny?" Stan repeats, befuddled, "Where is he?"

"At home, with Wendy," replies Kyle, "She's pretty sick. He says that he's sorry, but that he doesn't want to leave her all by herself."

"Wendy's sick?" Stan's brows sweep together. He's feels like he's missed a fucking month of his life, and he still doesn't understand what's going on, really, even though it was explained to him in pretty straight terms. He asks suddenly, "How long have I been out?"

"A couple hours," supplies Kyle.

"I came as soon as I heard, honey," puts in Sharon, combing out his hair in a mom-like manner. She's obviously riled up, and Stan kind of feels like a dick for getting her to feel like that. He didn't want to upset his mom.

Kyle clears his throat and says, "I, uh, didn't tell the hospital. You know, about the cliff. If I'd told them, I think that they would've put you on suicide watch, and I thought you would hate that, so…I didn't. But you had to get your stomach pumped 'cause of how much you drank. And I'm moving in with you."

Stan sputters, "Moving in? Don't you think we should discuss that?"

"It's only until I have to go back to New Hampshire," clarifies Kyle, "but I don't want to leave you alone. Not after that." Kyle's voice breaks, and he casts his gaze toward the floor. He turns away from Stan's bed, placing his hand on Sharon's arm. They start whispering together. Stan doesn't like it, so he glares daggers at them, despite the fact that neither Kyle nor his mother is looking at him.

Sharon tips her head back to look at him, and says gently, "I have to, uh, go to the bathroom. I'll be back in a minute, Stanley."

"What the fuck was that about?" complains Stan.

"I need to talk to you," Kyle says.

"About what?"

Kyle's face looks pained, like somebody's hurting him but he's not allowed to make a noise. But then, he blurts, "I love you!"

Stan blinks, and opens his mouth to respond, but Kyle goes on anxiously, "I thought about it, and that's the only thing that it could be. I get all weird-feeling around you and I hate being without you and when I thought you were about to jump, I thought I was going to die, too. I just thought you should know. You know, that I love you, or whatever."

It's not a very romantic confession, but it's quintessentially Kyle. In the meantime, Stan can hardly speak. It's the confession that he's always wanted to hear coming from Kyle, but he has been so fucking certain that it would never happen.

Kyle keeps talking, his face flushing red all the way from his neck to his ears. He says, "And I know you might not feel the same way. I know I fucked up everything. I guess I just didn't realize how bad everything had gotten for you – I know that's just an excuse. I keep telling myself, you know, if I'd known, things would've happened differently. But they didn't, and we're here now, and you're alive, and that's what's important to me. I love you. I'm sorry I didn't figure it out sooner."

"Jesus, Kyle, will you just shut up?" Stan snaps. Kyle recoils slightly. He tries to hide it, but Stan can see the hurt register on his face.

"I love you, too," Stan whispers.

"What?" Kyle manages, like he's unable to believe that such a thing is possible.

Stan tries to think of something, anything to say to follow up Kyle's speech. He feels so full, so happy, and so scared all at once that he doesn't know what he should say next.

"Do you mean that, or are you just saying it in the heat of the moment, or what? What do you –"

Stan holds up a hand. He says, "Shut up, I'm serious. I'm trying to think."

Kyle looks properly admonished. He takes Stan's hand in his, stroking the back of it with the pad of his thumb. As usual, he looks as if he desperately wants to speak again, but is trying hard not to, for Stan.

"I didn't think I'd ever hear you say that," Stan settles on saying.

"What do you mean?" Kyle asks, and Stan casts him a 'shush' look.

"I mean that…that I've loved you for a long time. Since we were fourteen, I think," Stan says.

"Wait, really?"

"Kyle, seriously, shut the fuck up. This has been eight years coming so I'm having trouble putting it all into words, okay?" Stan says. His voice is hoarse and overused, and his head is still pounding, and now it's filled to the brim with thoughts. He doesn't know what to do, really. What to say. He's frozen on the spot. He can't even count how many times he's fantasized about hearing those words coming from Kyle, but now that they have for real, he can't believe it. He can't believe it and he's stuck in some sort of time warp or something.

Maybe he _did_ die. Maybe he _is _in heaven.

Stan frowns and asks Kyle, "Did I die? Are you real? You can tell me honestly, I'm used to this shit."

"Stan, you're fucking stupid," says Kyle back, "Of course I'm fucking real."

"Just checking," Stan mutters, feeling a little embarrassed. He goes on, "When I started getting sad…I started loving you, too. And it made everything hurt more. I was scared you were going to leave me. And you did. And I'm scared now." He can feel himself getting quieter, like a tickle in his throat. It's just that he never imagined himself confessing all of this, and every feeling in Stan's body is on the line here. If Kyle reacts badly, he doesn't know what he'll do. Probably attempt suicide again, he guesses.

"Dude – I have to go back. I have to go to school," Kyle responds.

"I know that," Stan answers, "I mean like, leave _leave._ Forever. Like high school."

And what he means by _that_ is that Kyle seemed to leave him utterly and completely – he moved onto a new place in his life, with new friends, and seemed to no longer feel an emotional attachment to Stan at all. So maybe what Stan means is that he doesn't want Kyle to leave him emotionally. But that sounds stupid, so he doesn't say that, and merely hopes that Kyle will get the gist of what he means from his vague earlier words.

"I'm _never_ going to do that again," Kyle vows, "I feel like an ass. I _know_ I'm an ass. I'm just confused as to why you'd even want me around."

"'Cause I love you," Stan says, and he doesn't think that it is possible to get tired of saying those words.

Kyle, if possible, flushes an even deeper shade of red. It seems like for once in his life, Kyle Broflovski has been stricken silent. Stan can't help but feel a little pride that the person that caused this phenomenon was him.

Instead of talking, Kyle bends at the waist, and pushes his lips up against Stan's. Stan is exhausted, and he feels gross and sick, but as soon as they kiss he doesn't actually give a damn. He lifts up and wraps his arms around Kyle's slender torso, holding him as close as he can.

He thinks maybe, if one thing is perfectly right in his world, he can start to work toward making the rest of his life a little more right, too.

**o.o.o.o**

Stan is released from the hospital before the night is over, but is not immediately allowed to go back home, even though he expresses to Kyle several times that he is worried about his dogs.

No, instead, Sharon drops them off at Kenny's place, where Stan ends up lying back on the guest bed while Kyle packs up all of his belongings to take to Stan's townhouse. Kenny joins them about halfway through the ordeal. He looks even more tired than either Kyle or Stan, but the first thing that he does is rush forward and engulf Stan in a tight hug.

Kenny says, "Dude. Thank fucking God you're alive."

Stan loosens his grip a little after a few seconds, but Kenny refuses to release him. It takes a minute for Stan to realize that Kenny isn't letting go because Kenny is _crying_, into his shoulder. He's not a loud crier – Kyle is a loud crier, and Stan is, when he's alone. Kenny just sniffles into Stan's shoulder and mumbles numbly, "I'm so sorry, dude. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me. There's no excuse, I just got so caught up in my own shit that I – I don't know. I'm sorry."

Kyle politely pretends not to be listening while he folds up his clothing and puts it away in his suitcase, for which Stan is thankful. Stan brings his arms back around Kenny's scrawny body and holds him there.

He didn't realize that they felt this way. If he'd known that attempting suicide would be the catalyst for a few damn good things going right in his life, he'd have tried it ages ago – no, wait, that's a terrible thought. And he doesn't mean it. Actually, he's worried that everything will go back to the way it was, when Kyle returns to Dartmouth I a handful of weeks.

Still, Kenny doesn't tend to do the crying thing. His concern is genuine, Stan thinks. He replies, "It's okay, man. It's – well. Um, a lot of this is me getting into my own head. Sometimes once I'm there, I can't get out. My thoughts go in these terrible circles, and I'm stuck, you know? I'll be fine, though. I know I will." Actually, he doesn't know that, but it seems like the right thing to say to comfort his friend.

Kenny replies, "Dude, no you won't. This is serious shit. I'm sorry –" he sniffles loudly, "–that I didn't pay attention. I'm a selfish bastard, and I'm sorry. So fucking sorry. But I'm taking this seriously, Stan. I think you need help."

"Help? Like, meds?" Stan doesn't know how to feel about that. As a doctor (of sorts) he knows how much good that modern medicine has done for the human condition, but as himself, as plain Stan Marsh, he wonders if he'll lose a little of himself with the pills. If he starts them, anyway.

Kenny finally lets go of Stan, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his orange sweatshirt. He says, "Maybe. I don't know. I mean, you could start by talking to somebody. I, um, have had to get counseling before."

"You have?" Stan says, almost incredulous, wondering how he didn't know.

"Yeah," admits Kenny. His eyes are red-rimmed from all the crying he'd done into Stan's shirt, and he looks thoroughly humiliated, "Look, it's – this stuff is hard. I know, dude. I have the card of the guy I used to talk to. Uh, if you want it."

Stan hesitates. He feels like he might be embarrassed if he has to spill out every little thing about his life, but then, sometimes, he's just wanted _one person_ to listen, and his friends aren't always good about doing that. If he pays a dude to listen, then he has to listen, right?

In the end, Stan says, "Yeah. I'll give him a call, I guess."

Kenny takes out his beaten-up wallet and shuffles around in the pouches, before tossing it Stan. Stan looks at and almost laughs, "Mr. Mackey?"

"I know – he used to be a total moron. He went back to school and got an actual degree in shit, so he's a little more educated, I guess," explains Kenny, "In any case, he was a lot less douchey than I remember him being. He helped and shit."

Stan shrugs and pockets the card, but not before asking, "So, uh, dude?"

"Mm?" Kenny says, though his attention seems to be diverted by the pattern of his own quilt.

"Is Wendy alright?"

Kenny looks up sharply and sighs, "She's fine. She scared the shit out of me. Actually, maybe you should go and talk to her yourself. She's really worried about you," Kenny pauses and adds, "Oh yeah, she's living over here, now. Sort of. Maybe temporarily. I don't know what she wants, to be honest. She's across the hall, though. Don't worry, I'll keep your boyfriend company."

Stan nods and slips off the bed.

He's feeling a lot of things right now, so many that he can't keep track of them all in his head. Stan decides to, at least for now, ignore them and allow them to roil around as much as they'd like. He's too exhausted to deal with his shit right now.

He pads across the carpeted hallway and knocks on Kenny's bedroom door before poking his head in. Wendy is lying back with her head propped against the pillows, a book in front of her face. She looks up when Stan comes in and closes the door behind them. She, too, looks totally drained of energy. They've all been through a rough few days.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, marking her book and setting it beside her on the mattress.

"How am _I_ feeling?" Stan repeats, "How are _you_ feeling?"

"I'm doing fine," Wendy says, but she does look pretty shook up for "doing fine." When Stan gives her a look, her shoulders fall and she says, "Fine. I'm in pretty bad shape. It was awful – I thought I was having a miscarriage and it terrified me, but it's some condition, I don't know. The doctor explained it, but I was still in shock. I wasn't really listening, I was just happy that we're both alive," She pats her stomach thoughtfully, and continues, "I should be okay. I think Kenny's worse than I am right now. Now you – come here."

Stan edges forward a little, and she eyes him, indicating to come closer, until he's sitting on the edge of her bed.

She touches his hand and asks, "Are you going to be okay?"

"Fuck if I know," Stan replies.

"That's not an answer, Stanley," Wendy scolds.

He rolls his eyes flippantly, but says, "I think so. There's so much going on, I don't know. I can't even sort this all out in my head. I am so fucking tired."

"I know what you mean," Wendy gives a brittle little laugh, but soon looks serious again. She laces her fingers through Stan's and says, "I know I'm not the best when it comes to talking about feelings, but I want you to know that if you need me, I'm here."

"Says the bedridden pregnant woman," Stan replies.

"Hey," Wendy softly protests, "Shut up. I'm fine. Just – don't. I mean." She looks a little choked up – or maybe that's just hormones from the pregnancy. Stan can't tell.

Wendy carries on, "Shit. I'm getting all worked up. Stan, it's just that you're wonderful, and sweet, and you have a good heart. There are so many people that love you. I can't believe that you'd want to kill yourself. I can't believe it got that bad before anybody noticed. I feel like an asshole."

"I'm sorry," Stan says stupidly.

"What are you sorry for?" Wendy half-cries, "We should be the ones that are sorry – everybody, I mean. I can't believe. I just. Stan, I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

"I didn't know I was that important to you," Stan admits.

"Well, you were my first love," Wendy says, and Stan scoffs. She glares, but her tone is gentle when she continues, "But you're also a good friend. Come here and hug me, I can't really move."

Stan accidentally smiles a little and hugs Wendy to him. She murmurs, "And although I'd love to talk more, I stayed up just to make sure I saw you – I need to sleep. I feel like death."

Stan nods against her hair and kisses her forehead, before mumbling, "Sleep well," and exiting the bedroom.

Kyle is packed and ready to go when he returns, and Kenny offers to drive them over to Stan's place. There are tearful goodbyes before the get out of the truck, or at least, pretty emotional ones. Kenny grabs Stan's wrist before he can turn toward his home, and says, "I love you, man."

Stan realizes how tired he is as soon as he and Kyle are inside the house, and the sound of Kenny's truck rumbling away down the street sounds off. Nothing sounds better than collapsing onto his bed with Kyle – but the dogs have other ideas. As soon as he and Kyle are in the house, Stan is tackled to the ground. Daisy licks his face, Lucy paws at his leg, and Thor snorts affectionately. It's weird…Stan thinks that somehow, his dogs knew that he was in trouble. No matter what anybody else says, he knows that his dogs know when he's upset. They always come sit by him and wag their tails and do their canine best to make him not feel like he's not falling into a black pit of total despair.

After their enthusiastic greeting, Stan lets them out into the back and wanders upstairs with Kyle. They change into pajamas – well, more like 'they strip down to their boxers,' since it's summer, and fucking miserably hot as a result.

After they've let the pack back inside and locked up, they slip into Stan's bed. At first, they're a few inches apart, but Kyle takes initiative and scoots forward. His arms lace around Stan's middle, and legs tangle with Stan's legs.

He whispers, "I love you," and kisses the back of Stan's neck.

That's how Stan falls asleep.

He has never slept better in his entire life.

**o.o.o.o**

A week later, Stan finds himself climbing the stairs to get to a second-level office on Main Street. This morning, he went to work as usual, as if nothing had happened and as if the window wasn't still boarded up. There was a 'Cease and Desist' letter from the State Board of Veterinary Medicine sitting on his desk. Heidi apologized over and over again, but it didn't matter. As of today, Stan is unemployed. He's trying to feel something about it, something more than numb acceptance, but that's all he can muster. He's sad, sure, but maybe he deserves what was handed to him.

The receptionist's eyes flick up when Stan enters the office, closing the door behind him.

"Hey, Annie," he says gruffly, a little embarrassed that some chick he knew from school knows that he's in for therapy.

He hadn't actually wanted to come, really. He intended to throw away the business card that Kenny had given him last week, but Kyle found it when he was cleaning up the kitchen, and forced Stan to set up an appointment.

Stan is a little more than peeved, as Kyle's order came directly after Kyle had driven the supply of Stan's alcohol over to Kenny's, and made Kenny promise not to give it back to Stan.

So, here is he is. In the office of Mr. Mackey. Jobless, and without alcohol.

But, he's not single, so there's that. Even if his boyfriend is irritatingly pushy at times.

Annie says, "Mackey will be out in a few minutes. I need you to fill out these papers before we begin, okay?"

The paperwork is fairly standard. There's a list of symptoms, and Stan is supposed to check off all of the ones that he feels. He's a little embarrassed when he realizes that he's marked a blue 'x' in nearly every box. Stan returns the clipboard and papers back to Annie, complete with several sets of his initials and his cramped signature at the bottom of the page. When Stan sits back down he rubbing his hands together anxiously in an almost Butters-esque fashion (upon that revelation, he forces his hands apart and clutches either arm of the chair he's in).

"If it isn't Stan Marsh," Mr. Mackey greets. He looks essentially the same as Stan remembers him, though older in the face. He wonders why he hasn't seen this guy around town, and then remembers how much of a shut-in Mackey always was. He seems to remember being told that Mackey orders his food to be delivered from the grocery store, so that he doesn't have to leave his house to shop.

"Mackey," nods Stan, engaging him in a handshake.

He's led down a narrow but warmly painted hallway, to a spacious office. There isn't one of those typically mini-couch things you see in movies, and for some reason, that makes Stan feel slightly better about the whole situation. There is, however, a well-stuffed armchair caddy-corner to Mackey's desk, which is overloaded with papers, and a couple drawings in crayon. He must still speak to kids, too. Stan hopes he tells those children better things than "don't be a Debbie Downer," the very phrase that still puts Stan on edge about seeing this man in the first place.

Mackey has the clipboard in his clutch, and he reads over Stan's paperwork silently as Stan starts nervously clenching and unclenching his hands.

"Mmkay," Mackey says absently, setting aside the clipboard. That one little word makes Stan feel disturbingly like a child, it even makes him curl up smaller to the chair, like he doesn't want to be noticed.

"You're still feeling like the entire world is shit, then?" Mackey asks, folding his hands together.

"Uh," Stan manages, "Yeah, I guess so."

Mackey purses his lips. His next words are something that Stan did not expect. Mackey inquires, "I'm gonna ask you something, mmkay? Have you travelled at all since high school, Stanley?"

"Stan," he corrects irritably, "No. I just stayed in South Park. Why?"

"Mmkay," Mackey says thoughtfully, "Well, Stan, how do you know that the entire world is shit when you've only seen a tiny part of it?"

Stan considers this. He doesn't really have an answer to that, he decides. So he shrugs.

"Mmkay. I understand you're employed at the veterinary office?" Mackey goes on.

"Not as of today, I'm not," Stan sighs. He puts his face into his hands, and feels like this definitely was a bad idea. He doesn't have health insurance anymore – how the hell is he supposed to be paying for this again? It looks like this appointment will likely be his first and last. Hopefully Kyle is the kind of boyfriend that gives points for participation.

Mackey frowns deeply, drumming his fingers against his desk. He asks, "Why do _you _think you've been feeling this way?"

Stan mutters, "I thought…'cause of Kyle, but now I have Kyle, and I'm still…sad." He finishes lamely. He feels himself blushing, and dislikes the feeling, particularly in the presence of his old counselor.

"It's possible you've got clinical depression, mmkay?"

Stan almost asks what that means for him, but he knows. He didn't spend his time being drunk and on WebMD for nothing. There could be something chemical wrong with his brain.

That brings the meds back into the picture – and so he isn't surprised when Mackey starts rambling about different types of pills and different approaches that they could take to Stan's problem. At first he's annoyed, but after awhile, he realizes that he likes this much better than being told he's just some cynical asshole. He likes being educated on solutions instead of what his problems are. It's oddly…nice.

And when he leaves, he's scheduled another appointment, and he feels a little lighter. Not good, maybe, but he feels kind of okay. And 'kind of okay' is a nice switch from 'I will never be okay again.'

When Stan opens the door, Kyle is playing one of his old CDs on the crappy stereo and washing dishes in the sink. All three of the dogs are sitting around Kyle's socked feet, wagging their tails, as if Kyle will be casually dropping food for them to enjoy (he won't. Stan drops food for his dogs all the time, but Kyle is strict about not giving them 'people food').

Kyle doesn't notice him come in at first – he's too into the music, and singing along, poorly. Stan comes up from behind Kyle and wraps his arms around him.

"Honey, I'm home," Stan says jokingly.

Kyle gives a short yelp of surprise, but laughs as soon as he realizes that it's Stan. He drops the plate he was scrubbing and shoves Stan back playfully with a soapy hand.

"How did it go?" asks Kyle, rewarding Stan with a chaste kiss.

Stan shrugs and answers, "Alright. I feel decent."

Kyle places his chin on Stan's shoulder and says slyly, "I'm gonna make you feel more than decent." He nibbles on Stan's earlobe and brushes his hand against the front of Stan's denim shorts.

Suddenly, Stan decides that he feels far more than decent. He _mmm_s into a long kiss, before, without warning, he heaves Kyle over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Kyle protests, "Hey, asshole, I was the one taking charge." But he doesn't even bother to struggle out of Stan's grip, which makes Stan smirk. Just a little. Or maybe a lot.

Stan murmurs into Kyle's curly crop of red hair, just above his ear, "Don't worry, I'll still let you fuck me."

He feels Kyle heat up against him, blushing, but if Stan's not mistaken, he's also already at half-mast.

"Jesus, Stan," says Kyle exasperatedly, and Stan laughs.

Stan dispenses Kyle onto the bed and climbs on top of him, lifting Kyle's chin and guiding their lips into a heated kiss. Stan traces Kyle's teeth with his tongue, tasting him like he never has before – because _fuck_, today has actually kind of blown. And when your day blows, what better way to fix it than to taste your boyfriend?

Kyle breaks away first, and says breathily, "I love you."

Stan runs his palm over Kyle's curly hair and mumbles, "You say that a lot, you know."

"I know," agrees Kyle, "It's because I don't want you to ever forget it."

Stan's heart swells, and he kisses Kyle a final time before ridding them both of their shirts. Is there a better sensation than pressing your chest against your boyfriend's and rubbing up against each other? Stan is certain that there isn't. He can feel Kyle's erection through the fabric of their shorts, and the weight and heat of it turns him on more than almost anything in the world.

That's when Kyle flips Stan onto his back. He fumbles with the rest of their clothes until they're just skin on hot skin.

Stan groans when Kyle lifts himself back into a crouch, pressing damp kisses down the center of Stan's chest, until he reaches Stan's cock. He takes the head into his mouth lazily, looking up at Stan with lust-filled, half-lidded eyes.

He can't help it – he bucks up into the moist heat of Kyle's mouth, arching off of the bed with a low whine. He feels Kyle grin as he takes Stan in, inch by inch. He wonders how the fuck Kyle got so good at this, he swears that this boy has no gag reflex. Kyle bobs his head in slow, humming rolls. Stan bites down on his knuckles and tries hard not to come as soon as he'd like. But in the end, Kyle's tongue wins the war, and his orgasm slams into him before he can stop it.

Kyle swallows and grins. He edges back up and on top of Stan, crawling along the mattress by his elbows.

Stan pants, swallowing in labored breaths. Kyle kisses his temple and says, "I love having you at my mercy, baby," he licks along Stan's ear before asking in a whisper, "You're not already spent, are you?"

Stan shakes his head, "_Fuck_ no. I want you inside me."

Kyle's eyes flash and retrieves the lube from the top of the bedside table. He coats his fingers generously, sliding the first two inside Stan without warning. Stan groans and grinds into Kyle's hand helplessly. When Kyle adds a third finger, Stan is gone. He's a whimpering, groaning mess of a human who can only work up enough brain power to arch off of the mattress in tune with each thrust of Kyle's hand.

"Mm, Kyle," he moans, "Please."

"Please, what?" Kyle bites along the column of Stan's neck, sure to leave marks for tomorrow.

Stan cries out when Kyle rubs up against his prostate, springing up to get him to touch him there again. He mumbles, "Please fuck me."

"I couldn't hear that. Come again?" Kyle says.

"Please _fuck me_," Stan emphasizes, as Kyle hits that spot again and again with his clever fingers.

"You're the boss," Kyle sighs dramatically, withdrawing his hand. Stan feels empty, and a little cold without Kyle's hand inside of him. He makes an impatient noise in his throat as Kyle gives a healthy slick of lube to his erect cock.

In one fluid movement, Kyle lifts Stan's legs over his shoulders and thrusts in, hard.

"Gah – God_damnit_," Stan manages shakily. He will never get tired of this wonderful full feeling.

Kyle nuzzles his face into Stan's neck, making soft sounds of pleasure as he pulls out and glides in again. His fingernails dig into Stan's shoulders, sending sparks of pain down his spine, but it's good pain. The combination of it all makes Stan hard again, at which point Kyle is already working his hand up and down Stan's cock expertly.

"Ungh, Stan," keens Kyle, before he pulls out and comes on the covers – looks like those'll be going in the wash for about the fiftieth time.

Stan releases over Kyle's fingers an instant later.

This is the exact moment that Stan always cherishes, the one in which he and Kyle are nose to nose, with Kyle soft inside him (or depending on what mood they're in, Stan still inside Kyle), all sweaty and full and basking in the afterglow. That moment right before they realize that you have bruises all over from gripping each other, before they start to feel the sex-soreness setting in. It's an incredible kind of soreness, Stan thinks, because instead of making him feel weak, he feels smug.

"I love you," Stan whispers.

"I love you too," Kyle replies, without hesitation. After a moment's pause, he adds, "And don't fucking forget it."

**o.o.o.o**

It ends where this all began – at the Denver International Airport.

They end up taking Stan's Ford (with the promise that Kyle will drive it safely back to South Park so it can await Stan's triumphant return), because Kenny's old-ass truck is too small to fit the lot of people that want to see Stan off.

"Are you sure about this?" asks Kyle, for about the twentieth time, squeezing Stan's hand within his own, just as they roll by the gigantic demon horse statue.

Stan smiles, "Dude. Stop asking. I think Mackey was right about something – for once. I want to see the world outside of South Park. The only place I ever go is LA to see my dad sometimes, and frankly, LA isn't much of a vacation area during the summer. It's more like a madhouse."

"Yeah…but Sri Lanka?"

"I heard it's badass," Stan defends.

"From whom?"

"Internet," Stan responds sheepishly.

They pull into the parking lot. Kyle unloads Stan's bags from the back despite Stan's insistence that he is perfectly capable of doing so by himself.

"American Airlines," Stan reminds Kyle and Kenny, as the two of them rush forward into the building.

It only then settles in Kyle's mind: This is the last time that he's going to see Stan in a long time, too long for his taste. Sure, they'd have parted in a few days anyway, when Kyle went back to New Hampshire to get cracking on his master's…but still.

He enfolds Stan in a hard hug. Kyle didn't expect to be the most emotional at this parting, but he is. He's overcome with it all. In a short two months, so much has happened that he didn't expect, the first thing being that he fell in love with one Stanley Marsh, when his expectation was that he'd be spending two and a half months avoiding the man like the plague.

He kisses Stan everywhere – his face, his neck, his hair, his ears, his eyelids, and finally, his lips, for a long, wonderful kiss goodbye.

"Bye, baby," he says hoarsely.

"I'm coming back, dumbass," Stan says lightly, but there is a little bit of sadness in his eyes, underneath all that excitement.

"I know," Kyle complains, "I just – fuck. I love you, okay?"

Stan just grins, seizing the handle of his nondescript black suitcase, "Don't worry. I won't forget."

**Fin**

**o.o.o.o**

**Don't worry, there's going to be an epilogue!**

**Okay, so I didn't actually expect to be finishing this story up with this chapter, but it writing it was starting to stress me out in a weird way, and it was close enough to the conclusion in the first place.**

**But seriously, thank you to those that supported me through this endeavor.**

**And thank you, as always, to my magical reviewers: ObanesHarvest, NightmareMyLove, Kath, VannaUsagi13, Porn Mercenary, Magical Reality, OXRosinaOX, conversefreak3, Miroir Twin, Narcolepcy375, Antagonistic protagonist, 1220McCormick (whose Style fic you should go read!), crazychick16, sephyroth19, WxTxR, SassCrotch (/dies at username), Bubbl3wrapGuy, Mallory, MariePierre, KirstenTheDestroyer, ArisuXMehla281, and Kuutamolla.**

**My next fic is going to be a Bunny fic. I'm aware that this isn't a popular ship, but I hope that some of you will at least give it a shot, because I am **_**super fucking excited**_** about it. It's going to be the darkest and most fucked up thing I've written yet (if all goes according to plan), and will hopefully be less choppy than my writing usually is. **

**Much Love,**

**Scarlett**


	15. Ending Credits: Electric Feel

**Ending Credits: Electric Feel – MGMT**

Kyle had only flown in that morning, and thank God that he'd decided to show up early, because the text came during dinner with his family (his mother had guilted him into spending more time with the family, since he had avoided it during his stint in the summer).

_From: Stan: Dude baby comin better hurry 2 hells pass_

Stan doesn't usually ignore capitalization (mostly because he knows that it drives Kyle crazy).

"Kyle, where do you think you're going?" Sheila demands as he scrolls past the text, pockets his phone, and stands up.

He says, "Taking the car. Wendy's having the kid." He had explained to them ages ago that he felt required to be present at the hospital, considering his Godparent status that Kenny had bestowed on him in July, hopefully his mother would let this incident go without too much fuss, but knowing her, she would probably bring it up any time that Kyle attempted to get out of some family obligation.

He pulls on his tweed coat and the plaid cashmere scarf that his mother sent him last Hanukkah, knowing that Stan will make fun of him for being a "hipster," or whatever, but not quite caring. It's kind of exciting, knowing that later tonight, he'll be a Godparent of a child (or velociraptor, Stan tells him jokingly). On the other hand, the thought of this joyous (or gross?) occasion makes Kyle feel a lot older. One of his best friends is about to be a father.

Outside, it's snowing lightly. It's nothing huge; the flakes aren't even sticking to the road, just to the front lawn of the Broflovski house and his mother's rosebushes right outside of their porch. Still, it's chilly, and Kyle rubs his hands together as he rushes toward his mom's Subaru. Kyle slides into the driver's seat and starts it up, but before he slams the thing into drive, he replies to Stan.

_To: Stan: On my way_

He hasn't actually gotten to see Stan yet, since arriving at DIA that morning. Ike came to pick him up, and Kyle is now being forced to sleep in his old bedroom. He hasn't seen Stan in the flesh since August, when he saw Stan off on his international adventure. From their frequent Skype sessions, however, Kyle has gathered that Stan couldn't afford his rent upon his return to the United States, and is now bunking in Kenny's house, in the soon-to-be-nursery. The dogs live there, too, despite Wendy's initial protest that the dogs wouldn't be good with a baby. Daisy continues to dislike Kenny, but she hasn't bitten him again – and it was Daisy that won Wendy over. It seems that the mastiff gets along with her.

He parks the Subaru in the parking lot at Hell's Pass and scrambles across the wet tiles to the maternity ward. The maternity ward, thankfully, has its own waiting room.

The first person that he spots is Stan, slouching back into one of the cheap-looking chairs upholstered in some ugly print from the 1980's. Stan stands and leaps forward, gripping Kyle in a tight hug. They kiss chastely – neither of them care much for public displays of affection, but they haven't seen each other in three and a half months. Kyle figures that they can make an exception.

"Holy shit, I missed you," Stan says.

Kyle grins and asks, "How was Sri Lanka?"

Stan gets this look on his face, this weirdly happy, nostalgic look, and replies, "Ah, dude. It was fucking awesome. Culture shock beyond belief, but man, it was the most amazing place. I spent most of my time in Colombo, there was like this badass Buddhist temple – "

Kyle cuts him off with a kiss. He can't help it, he's been dying to do that for months, and kissing the screen of his laptop can only do so much.

Stan laughs when they break, and they collapse back into the chairs against the wall, lacing their fingers together.

It's only then that Kyle notices the other familiar faces sitting around them. Bebe is sitting with her knees pressed together tightly, looking down the hallway that Kyle assumes is where Wendy and Kenny are. Carol McCormick is talking softly with Mr. and Mrs. Testaburger. Even Kevin is here – Kyle hasn't seen the guy in years. He's quite a bit burlier than he remembers him being, and his light brown hair is slicked back into a ponytail. He's also sporting a lumberjack-esque beard. To his right is Karen, who looks exhausted and as though she came directly from work. She's wearing a teal 1950's style waitress getup.

It's all a little awkward, especially with the PDA between Stan and Kyle having just taken place. Kyle's under the impression that Kenny grew up in a bit of a homophobic environment. Karen doesn't seem to give a damn, but Kevin looks uncomfortable.

The sound of footsteps pounding down the hallway interrupts Kyle's musings on Kenny's home environment.

"Speak of the devil," Kyle mutters, as Kenny appears, a goofy smile spread across his face from ear to ear.

Kenny says, "You guys can come on back. It's a girl."

Karen lets out an almost inhuman squeal, and Bebe shoots out of her seat like a bullet rushing back. Kenny hangs back and embraces Kyle, one-armed. He explains, "I kicked Bebe out of the room. She's pissed at me right now. Welcome back, dude."

"It's good to be back," Kyle says.

"Dude, I got your spawn something," Stan interrupts. He passes a little package over to Kenny.

Kenny grins and punches Stan lightly on the shoulder. He says, "You didn't have to, man," but he's already opening the present. Inside is some sort of onesie –Kyle isn't really familiar with what it's called. It's orange, and has a little hood. The hood has spikes on the top that go down the back and into a little plush tail…like a dinosaur.

"_Dude_," says Kenny.

They arrive at the room, then. Inside, Wendy is lying back on an angled hospital bed, looking tired out of her mind. Her hair is pulled back into a bun with an ugly sort of scrunchy, and in her arms is a bundle.

Kyle, being the second tallest of the group (Kevin is barely the first, by perhaps half an inch), peers over the top of Bebe's head as she coos. It's about as attractive as you'd expect a newborn to be – her face is pink and squishy looking. But, she does have an impressive crop of dark hair, like Wendy's.

"She doesn't really look like you, does she?" says Karen.

Kenny crosses his arms and argues, "She does so. She has my feet. Here, I'll show you –" He bends to remove one of his combat boots.

There is a loud and simultaneous, "_No_!" from all of the surrounding people.

The baby starts to cry, and Wendy shushes her, before handing her off to Kenny. He rocks the thing, looking a little amazed, and peels back part of her baby blanket to reveal a tiny foot. He whispers to Kyle, "See. My feet."

Kyle decides not to tell Kenny that he has no idea what his feet look like.

"What's her name?" asks Stan.

"It's a mouthful," Kenny says, raising his brows at Wendy, who raises hers right back. He goes on, "Sarah Carol Testaburger-McCormick."

From her place, Kenny's mom lets slip a, "You gave her my name?"

Kyle feels Stan wrap his hand around Kyle's, pulling him closer.

Kyle says, "Let's not have one of those things for like, ten years, okay?" He wants to enjoy being selfish for the rest of his twenties, after all.

"Deal," Stan murmurs, kissing Kyle's cheek.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to the final chapter's reviewers: EmoRainbowGoddess, Porn Mercenary, conversefreak3, NightmareMyLove, OXRosinaOX, The Next Exit, MariePierre, Mister Melancholy, Narcolepcy375, TheAwesome15, Miroir Twin, prettyoddrydonfan, Kath and KirstenTheDestroyer.**

**To clear up some things:**

**This ended here because I didn't want to be one of those fics that dragged out plotless chapters, I wanted it to end in a good place. **

**I probably won't be writing Style again.**

**But thank you to all the awesome people I met because of this fic. C:**


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